It.

At 9:36 a.m. I wake up but it is meant to be 10:36 a.m., yesterday.
I have a Hallowe’en hangover.
I am up, I hold my banana, I grab my rice milk, stick my hand in the ice cubes. Make a shake.
It clicks. I brew a green tea.
I am in Twitter.

We’ll watch it later.

I misread a tweet at 12:30 p.m. I am embarrassed. Good thing I’m not in strategic communications – MMJ will kill me. Mark laughs at me, not with me. I fumble the whiff. I don’t know COLON has so many meanings. I apologize, sort of, about it.

Thinking I’ll write a poem called “Insert Foot in Mouth Disease.” I don’t do it.

I am in the kitchen. Making chili. Simple ingredients. Making my girl happy.
I make it.

I am in the bedroom. I cannot read this historical romance. The Scottish dialect in the dialogue is perfect.
I hate it.

I’m up the stairs and down the stairs.
I do it.

It’s 1:00 p.m. and I’m feeling like I’m 10 years of age. The shrimp and Coke, with a straw, are all good. I’m Canadian. I know nothing about baseball. I like the Jays. I smell the beer, the popcorn, the peanuts at SkyDome. Rogers Centre it is. The money is on Front Street. The Mirvish’s have it on King and on Yonge Streets.

I say bye to my daughter, tell her I love her. She seems to listen. It’s her age. The husband is the chauffeur this time.
I live it, in the ‘burbs.

I:44 p.m. and BlueChickenNinja reminds me it’s NaNoWriMo. For me, it’s NaNoPoMo, maybe NaNoBloMo. November.

Husband is yelling upstairs. We don’t go to one another to talk. We yell out things in our family. We are quiet. It’s the only noise we seem to make. Enjoying calling out to one another. I yell it. He yells it. She yells it.

I write it. I have this poem on Scrivener and my blog.

A parent schedules it.
My husband says we’ll do it at 2 o’clock.

Form: I-do-this-I-do-that
Prompt: NaNoWriMo, NaNoBloMo, NaNoPoMo
Device: Association

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