12

oh to be the nurse who kisses your burn. it is a moot point. it is all a basket of moot points, parading in my mind. the basket of moot points laughs at my attempts to make sense. ha! it says. look at this precious (i.e. pitiful) creature, trying to make sense from feelings! I reach for a rice cake and try not to look back. it is hard not to look back when the thing you are trying not to look back at has the audacity to walk in front of you (thoughts of the object, not the object itself), although I am the first to admit one must first approve of the audacity and therefore consent to the confrontation, rice cake in hand. it is hard to conduct the day. it is hard to scramble an egg. it is hard to pursue the ideal of the breakfast before noon. the times and frequencies of meals indicate how close I am to attaining functional personhood, as established by the world around me, a world I increasingly trust with an ease that gives me permission to feel peace via the utilitarian truth of the meal routine. it is hard to determine if personhood really is at odds with the basket of moot points. at some point I hope it is not: one should not have to choose between the basket and full-time personhood. one can perform the personhood in the basket, ideally. one can kiss the burn and achieve the egg before noon. one can truly have it all. before one can have it all, one must first have oneself, though. one must learn to inhabit the body that performs the personhood in another’s basket, before one can feel the happiness of being in such a sexy place. one must first feel that their own basket is not weaved from barbed wire.