by Kater Cheek
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The window idea didn't work. The sugar sticks to the pans if you don't use parchment paper, and we ran out of that a long time ago. My fingers are sore from trying to work in the cold, and the last baking sheet is pretty much ruined. I miss Josh. I even miss Brian.
I try not to think about Craig.
I dreamt last night that Brian came back with a giant leg of venison. I dream about food, about oranges and hamburgers and strawberries and hot wings from my favorite bar. Beer too. I’d kill for some beer. I’d kill for some meat. I’m so sick of pancakes. Every time I make another one I have to force myself to eat it, then concentrate to keep from puking it up again. I even miss the mice.
It’s so fucking cold that today I took the racks out of the oven and climbed inside. I’ve lost so much weight that I’m just barely able to fit. I probably would have slept in there, but my hair got singed from getting too close to the flames.
