My father is refilling his wine glass, this time not with Chardonnay, but cereal and rice milk. He’s applying an absurd amount of concentration to it, and some’s going onto the table, some into the glass. It’s a Kix Commercial.
And it’s very funny, except my mother told me earlier today that he’s drinking more than usual. Nothing is effortless for him right now. She was driving my car while I ate gluten-free pancakes with tofu cream cheese. I kept reaching over to operate the windshield wipers. I couldn’t decide if she didn’t know how to do it or didn’t care. Life is a telethon of trouble for everyone I know. There are dandelions of questions, and no killer answers. I know God’s good, but he needs a better marketing campaign.
I apologize for all this, which is the literary equivalent to TJI Friday’s frozen hors d’ouevres – small, cheap, leaving you hungry. Like Hannah Warren in California Suite, I seem to be incapable of an honest thought or emotion.
All right. I’m mad, and worried, and scared, and sad, and tired, and out of ideas.