A Short Story I Wrote Instead of Cooking Anything

The Woman Alone
I’m a pretty boring person when I’m alone. I do a little karate around the apartment, sing, talk to my cats, and read. If there’s a TV, I watch TV. When my husband dies—whether I’m old or young—I’ll just go on being boring and alone. I imagine that, if I’m still here, I’ll learn to use his saws and drills. I’ll learn to make furniture and continue his business and become self-sufficient. I’ll learn to drive in this city without getting distracted. Or maybe I’ll take a job at my school, work forty-hour weeks, and pray to God that I can pay the rent. I don’t think I would pick his dirty clothes up off the floor or delete his woodworking stuff from the computer.

How would time pass when it was just me? Slowly, probably, like a fingernail dragged across a bloody scrape. Boring and painful. Someone waiting at a stoplight that won’t turn green. I’ll have to turn the television on for noise.

Of course, if I was alone here and died the kittens would probably start eating me before anyone wondered what the smell was.

Maybe then they’d fly me home and bury me in the graveyard behind my parents’ house. Or maybe in the cemetery where Granny’s buried. But if my husband is already dead, he will have been buried in a graveyard back home, too. Most likely, they’ll bury me with him. And that’s what I would prefer. Not because I believe that means we’ll be together in the afterlife, but for the symbolism. There in the mud our bodies decompose while our souls sing “Glory to God” in Heaven.

It’s not such a bad way to spend eternity.


Where'd all the chicken go?

Well, the truth is that there never was any chicken. Or maybe chicken was just a myth, like ice (Spongebob Reference #1). Since last we talked, the aforementioned depression has kept me too bogged down to cook anything more complicated than fish sticks. When I wasn't stuck to the couch trying to stop crying, I was drinking or smoking or crawling out of bed with a sore throat and hangover. If you're wondering about the boozing and smoking, there's a simple explanation: I've decided to take my anger at my depression out on my body. But on the off chance that you're a writer, too, I won't bore you with the details. Chances are you already know this cycle intimately. I will say that I survived the worst of this last down. Maybe some day there will be chicken, but for now I have too many important things to think about. Namely Nacho Cheese Macaroni, my newest invention.

The theory behind it: I like pasta and I love queso y salsa, so why not combine them? It seems like hamburger might go well with this. A kind of Mexican goulash. I think I'll work on a prototype Friday or Saturday night and let you know how it turned out.
Via con pollo, amigos.