Reading Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood stretches me as a writer. The nonfiction details—the facial scar that distorts a killer’s face like a mosaic mirror—shake me out of my comfort zone. The freedom to write exactly as one sees it, in a way that evokes images as sharply as bleu cheese tastes, is a fantasy of mine.
And yet, even when unshackled from the wall, I remain caged—still beholden to the guard. I slip him favors, like intel, hoping for small advantages.
My advantage? Presenting information respectfully. Clean. Polished. Sanitized of the dirt and rot beneath the apple’s skin. I don’t let myself explore the pinprick moments—the mess. What if the dominoes fall?
Still, I quietly dare. I blow into my imaginary bubble: my opinions, my stances, my non-negotiables. You might not even notice. Doesn’t matter. It’s a mini sonic boom. Nuanced grains of sand I sprinkle, imperceptible maybe, but real. Here, the only option is to play by my rules. And if you’re squirmy in your seaty, well… there’s the door. Go get yourself a refreshy.
Post-sprinkler, post-massaman curry, still in my retro peach-orange 80s one-piece, I opted out of the second half of Atlantis. My eye caught the oversized branch, the one whose hand stretches a couple of ticks past two. I’ve imagined a rope swing there so many times—classic Southern movie style. But it would need trimming. Adding weight without pruning first could result in a “no one ever swings again” moment.
Temptation Island was the real reason for that one-line post two nights ago. The “Peace I’m out” wasn’t exactly poetically penned prose. But, I mean—it’s Temptation Island.
As I immersed myself further in the couples’ dynamics—their fears, their motivations—it started to feel like a Rain Man-level math problem for my relationship-mapping brain. But also… chaos. It’s like throwing strangers into the Bering Sea at midnight in December with a promise to be back in a few days. “Here’s some tequila, some gas, and matches.” Ok, so maybe nothing is endearing about any of it. Maybe the drama used to feed something in me that’s now full.
Then there’s the pallet pile. Should I use the asshole pallets to build a primitive low bench for the front porch? Their no-give mentality makes removing nails to pull them apart impossible. I could cut one pallet in half, using the toothbrush-like saw—one piece for the seat, one for the back. No cost, but my life energy. Then I could top thes two orphaned two-inch cushions currently squishing under my butt on it and call it good.
Of course, then our whole pallet stash will be used up, and future me will have to borrow a truck to get more. But that’s not a today-me problem.
Also, the bunny’s front cheeks—the ones covering his teeth—look like puffy little butt cheeks. Maybe it’s all the butts on Temptation Island clouding my vision, but as I held up a juicy Dickey Farms peach to him, all I could see was a shaking budonkadonk.
Up next on this Independence Day Eve is Evelyn’s bedtime, working with a client at 9pm, hopefully some Temptation Island (next are the 30-second video diaries for their partner!) and then bedtime. I hope your day was incredible.
Take care. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 