by Emma Stout
Sometimes I want to have three kids but then I remember that Global Warming is a thing.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to do cocaine but then I remember that my nose has
faced enough from 19 years of seasonal allergies.
Sometimes I peel almost, just almost, the entire orange in one strip.
Sometimes I consider buying a ticket to Coachella but then I realize that I don’t have an outfit.
Sometimes I still think about that night in the stairwell.
Up here is fine. No, up here.
Sometimes I try to elaborate on the quesadilla. The quesadilla.
Sometimes I try to come up with a cool name for a company.
Sometimes something like “Gelzor” or “Malitite” but all I can think of is the word “Pastrami”.
Sometimes I try so hard to describe what’s in front of me but then I just end up writing a list of
what is in my pocket.
Sometimes I wonder how it took people so long to invent the wheel.
Sometimes I can hear the door closing.
I said no, thank you.
Sometimes, but not all the time, I drink cow milk when no one is watching.
Sometimes I think I’m going to vomit if I see the word “Minimalism” one more time.
Sometimes, in bed, I close my eyes and clench my teeth together because it takes me back to
falling asleep with my braces on.
Sometimes I remember the voices in the hallway.
Sometimes I question if my parents really did know that I would like brussel sprouts when I grew up.
Sometimes I worry that I’m the type of girl whose favorite color is mustard yellow.
Sometimes I still picture the railing.
Dig through the water.
Sometimes I tilt my head, trying to find the exact point where the horizon meets the windowsill.
Sometimes I know I was in the wrong.
It’s okay, I forgive you.
I forgive you.