Year One
Rules:
(1) Don’t touch my face or
(2) Watch me shower or
(3) Slap my ass in public or
(4) Open pickle jars for me or
(5) Wake me up before I’m ready or
(6) Let me oversleep or
(7) Say anything about working out or
(8) Buy me flowers when you know I like plants or
(9) Open doors for me or
(10) Tell me not to cry.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
I don’t like tree bark or pomegranate seeds or when roots cling to plants that are already dead.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
I can’t think about space. DON’T MAKE ME. There are too many little parts in one picture; too many small things swirling together. Dark Matter. Gas. How did you even find me?
I DON’T UNDERSTAND.
I like birds because they are bovine. You are the only one who knows that. They are not feeble or angelic! Eight hollowed bones in each wing and they spend all day nesting. MORONS.
NO ONE ELSE UNDERSTANDS.
Year Eight (365 days times 8 plus 2 leap years and 3 hours)
Rules:
(1) Never leave me.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
You are my star; my nested bird in chaos.
Southern Wild 