warmup

Sunday morning writing warmup: My nails grow longer as my mouth stays affixed to teacups. The sound of an electric device hums "think less, think more, think until your mind implodes or rearranges itself to look more like the state of Oklahoma". Have I been there? Once, when I was three or seven in shorts and a tank top stained in too much chocolate ice cream. Maybe I refused to get of the car due to a swarm of bees overhead. Maybe, an elusive word, one I'd like never again to use unless there is something that needs cleaning up. I'll clean up with maybe. Maybe could be the shiny type of cleanliness only 50's housewives accomplished. In their skirts and aprons, they'd clean up with maybe. And maybe would wink back in sharp sparkly delight. Windows would glisten, rugs would breathe, floors would squeak... maybe. 

A dainty young lass sat atop my man's staff as I watched, aghast. 

Would you please mind closing the door? It's a bit brisk in here. My legs are trembling and goosepimpled. Wouldn't want my pet to see these gams this way. She prefers them coppery and smooth like a sunblock bottle. The door won't close, you say, well how can that be. Just slam it shut and listen for the click. It's not broken, it's never been broken. A door doesn't just break. Wings break, arms break, knees break and doors remain.