I feel like there’s just not enough time in life to do everything I love. I wish there were three of me: One to make art and music, one to read all the books ever, one to always be outside. Well, I guess I would need a fourth to work 24/7 to pay for all of the Alices and the care of the many cats it would require to sate us. And now that I think about it, probably a fifth to care for the cats all the time. Oh, and a sixth to play Skyrim. And a seventh for constant dance-partying. Shit, that would probably require at least an 8th Alice to work 24/7, too. So I guess what I’m saying is I wish I was the queen of a hivemind of Alices so I can just sit here getting fat and happy.
as i woke this morning, i couldn’t remember her laugh. in my hypnopompia, i couldn’t remember if i’d ever even seen her laugh. if she was still able to laugh by the time i was born. i could only remember her gaze.
"oh, she’s looking at you! she always reacts to your face."
"must be my weird hair," or "because i’m so funny-lookin’", or something, i’d say, half to myself.
but i’ve always thought, inside, it’s because she could really see me.
and i don’t know what she saw, or understood, but in those moments, i’ve never felt proud.
it might be the haze of grief, but fully awake, i truly can’t remember the last time i saw her laugh. and the last time i ever even made her smile is an absolute mystery. did i ever? i hear a laugh in my mind that i think to be hers but there is no face attached. i wonder if it’s something i imagined from a poem or saw in a movie and tied to her, a phantom memory creation, to enforce a flimsy recall. or something from one of my dreams where she was magically cured. walking, smiling freely, playing with me.
i do remember all the coins i threw, all the candles i blew, and all the wishes attached to them.
"i wish she would be better"
as if it could happen that easily. as if it was even plausible.
as if the simple toss of my hand or heavy sigh of my breath, carried by shallow “good intentions” would compensate for my absence. i didn’t know what to do, how to comprehend, and could only hide.
2-ish cups of flour, depending on how much flies everywhere during mixing
1 cup packed ancient, cement-like brown sugar you’ve had since college
1/2 cup caucasian sugar
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
3/4 cup melted butter
1 tbsp of the combined 7 vanilla extract bottle remnants you find in your pantry
2 cups of chocolate and butterscotch chips in whatever proportion you wish
about 3-5 glasses of wine
-Spontaneously buy all the ingredients at the store when you really went there to get just some milk or something. (Forget the milk if you want to be authentic.)
-Forget you bought the ingredients until a week or so later, then suddenly decide at around 8:30pm to make cookies.
-Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Attempt this repeatedly and get frustrated that the oven timer starts on its own for some reason. Have your boyfriend come over and gently explain to you like you’re 5 years old: “That’s the timer that counts down until the oven is heated up.” Oh.
-When you melt the butter, put it in the microwave for approximately one million hours and then spend about 20 minutes wiping butter explosion out of the microwave until the fatty coating is relatively thin and evenly spread throughout the interior and is sure to remain there forever.
-Mix together the crazy amount of sugar and the crazy amount of butter in one bowl using a six-speed hand mixer that ranges from “way too damn fast” to “make sure at least two people are holding on or it’s going to take off on its own leaving a tiny twin-tornado path of destruction through your kitchen”. Alternate between “way too damn fast” and “stabbing the dough with the mixer blades off”.
-In another bowl that ends up being too small, mix together all the other shit except the chocolate and butterscotch chips. Have some of the flour burst out onto your pre-greased cookie sheet and make it all nasty.
-When you go to add the eggs, suddenly remember that you hard-boiled the rest of your eggs last night. Toss everything together, shove it in the fridge, and turn the oven off.
-The next night after work, have your boyfriend acquire eggs and wine. Consume some of the wine. Suddenly remember at about 8:30 (again) that you have all that shit in the fridge.
-Preheat the oven, mix the eggs in, then stir in the chips. Half-assedly spray some more cooking spray in the general direction of the nasty cookie sheet from last night that has been sitting out this whole time and gathered kitty footprints from curious cats. Hurl gobs of dough at the sheet, catching some of it in your mouth along the way.
-Bake the stuff for 15-30 minutes, however long you are enthralled by cat gifs on the internet. Remove from oven and watch them deflate like sad, brownish balloons. Try one! It’s delicious, and magical how it is thoroughly cooked on the bottom and yet still kind of raw. Whatever, any salmonella is probably dead now, right?
-Load up the tray again, bake, cat gifs, etc. Do this like 10 times because you only have one shitty cookie sheet.
-Offer one to your boyfriend, who you suddenly remember doesn’t like butterscotch.
-Optional: finish the wine.
Makes about I don’t know how many because they range from tiny, pathetic cookies with sad, pleading chip-eyes to huge, disgruntled lumpy ones and there are a lot of merging siamese-cookies in between.