Right now I am watching a television show

about which Laura says: "Chemistry porn--it's so chemical--chemically hot!" A blonde actress who is dressed so that the viewer can infer that she went to Vassar, possibly Williams, maybe Haverford, is in a frenzy of cross-cuts upending vials and filling test tubes and applying viscous lacquers to dirty poupees to find clues to find leads to find fictitious criminals to satisfy the viewer's appetite for justice breached, adjudicated, then served. CSI, I think? My parents have rearranged the sparse furniture in this little Eichler so that my former bunk bed, denuded of its titular top, is facing the television-cradling third of the entertainment center wall unit formerly found in the living room. So despite my best efforts not to watch television while reclining, I and L have thus far already succumbed to half an hour of comedies, dramas, dramedies, and chemistry porn in the guise of "forensic pathology."

It's early in California but late in New York. I've been falling asleep in all the wrong places today--waking up to a fortutiously preset alarm clock at 1:57pm, three minutes before Contracts, with the imprint of the corduroy of two crossed jacket sleeves herringboning my face and a thin film of drool spreading on the study room table underneath my head, imminently confused, looking for daylight to give my fucked up circadian rhythms a point of reference, finding context-free fluorescence and a laptop screen filled with haphazard notes on something called "impracticability" instead; sleeping through four consecutive hours of infant howling on Continental Flight 427 on a folded airplane pillow I kept thinking was a piece of cocobread in a dream of Jamaican patties eaten on an unseasonably warm autumn day in Washington Square Park with someone I loved to the point of agony on a patch of grass next to the public restrooms where the stalls have no doors and the rats have free reign. [I'm full up on prepositional phrases because I'm in a movement-filled phase of the insect life cycle. Now fill your head with images of chrysalises rent and new wings unfolded.]

Sleep, sleep, sleep. Delirium plus. I am too lazy/stupid to write acrostics now but believe me, I'd write them here if I could. Instead I'll leave off for now and leave the pornographic catalog of my predicted Thanksgiving foods for tomorrow afternoon. Here's the unpornographic, totally appropriate catalog of expected feasters--me, L, my folks, my dad's four brothers, their wives, their eight children, my grandma, hopefully my cousin's South Asian girlfriend, hopefully my favorite two people from college, hopefully Jesus Christ the only child. I'll also leave you with the words of wisdom my dad just imparted upon me: "Brush your teeth. If your teeth rot, that's really the end."