Foul ball, Jeff Landry.

"I will have two eggs basted medium please, no toast, back bacon and coffee with room. And water, brilliant. Thank you".

Alfie walked into the bakery wearing my aunt's old winter coat with the fur-trimmed hood up just as I was leaving and he whisked me and my winter ride up and away in the giant right hand drive truck that makes everyone smile. I couldn't help but smile, sitting high up in the cab watching one of my best friends at the wheel shifting with ease out of the corner of my eye. We drove and I counted smiles of people taking a moment from side stepping puddles and slop like ponies on the sidewalk to stare.

We ate our greasy breakfast at an ungainly pace, too fast for eleven in the morning but it couldn't be helped. The back bacon was delicious. Last night I barely got two and a half hours of sleep. My conscience kept me up for most of the night until some creases were smoothed over in a torrent of text messages being hurled across the city like a rainstorm of bullets. Hurtful, efficient bullets. Eventually, I swallowed my pride and admitted defeat, stepped down from the high horse in my head and hung my head in shame. Self-righteous, self-absorbed, self-pitying, self-centered. Self, self, self, no room in the Inn. I am sorry. I slept at last as the words escaped both out of my lungs aloud to myself in the sleepy apartment and as they went soaring through the air to some one else's sleepy apartment.

I don't feel better, but I don't feel worse. My throat is itchy today. No amount of clearing or fake coughing or tea seem to help.

There was a fake mustache stuck to my desk leftover from the bachelorette party I hosted in September and without thinking I peeled it off and promptly stuck it to my face. I am still wearing it, even though it feels ridiculous. I don't know why I wrote that. The scratchiness matches the scratchiness of my throat. It is stuck back to the desk. Looking at it makes me think of Laura and the piles of letters I have, not quite complete, but soon to be sent eastwards.

Today I am going to learn silk screen and I am really excited. The last time I silk screened was back in Grade Nine when all I could think about was Jeff Landry and his trademark laugh that belonged to that of a dog. A big, dopey, friendly dog. I was too preoccupied with this pubescent vision to focus on something that could someday be my bread and butter. Oh Jeff Landry, you distracted me so well and singlehandedly stole my hand-holding virginity under a stained Mickey Mouse blanket in your basement when I was 15. You tried so hard to seduce me that night, to lure me into your bedroom in Morris, Manitoba for a hardcore makeout session during a quick movie intermission. You were so confident that your charm, straight teeth and hand holding abilities would be all the convincing I would need to up the ante. I was pious and stubborn as all get out--even at that age--and took to the safety of the burber carpet of your bedroom floor in lieu of the gross, unmade bed. Jeff, you gave up pretty quickly and we eventually went back to the family room. Billy and Robin were making out so hard it was laughable. I think I erupted at the sight of them and at that moment knew I was not cut out to be a teenage tart or a practicing Lolita by any means. At 15 I still wanted to climb trees and be Harriet the Spy.

I still do.

My throat isn't itchy anymore. Thanks for distracting me Jeff Landry, but tonight I will only have eyes for the lesson.