I’m lay on the couch, and Cacio has her head flopped in my lap. Aneesah is on the other end of the couch having a nap. The setting sun is blinding me a little—it’s at that angle where it just goes straight into your eyeballs. There’s the sound of the BART, and then a firework, and then barking dogs. I’m ordering a pizza because… well… I want pizza. It’s Indian pizza though, which is a thing. It’s an actual, delicious thing.
I’m starting to write about wedging clay. I know something about it. I don’t know a lot about it. That’s why I’m writing about it. I need to order some clay and wedge it. I’m not one for writing fiction, but even if you do write fiction I think that you should try to get as close to the real thing as possible. Maybe don’t commit too many crimes if you want to write about crime, but… clay? You can wedge some clay, surely.
On that note, I have to go. I’ve got to pick up pizza. It won’t be long, and I like to drive to pick it up. It feels strange getting things delivered when you have a car. I didn’t have a car before we lived in California. I couldn’t drive until we lived in the country. I didn’t think I’d ever drive, at one point, and now I drive all the time. Mixed feelings about that, actually, but at least I’m rewarded with the destinations.