Yesterday while I sat on the back patio I decided that the leaves on the trees were actually living emerald butterflies. I waited to see the tiny green creatures take flight and leave the tree naked and brown and alone, but that did not happen.

Later, we walked through the Village and ate ice cream and laughed at space aliens and Frankenstein and got rained on. My shirt stuck to my back and felt sizes smaller; my hair stuck to my head and I felt too obvious or too large or too there. Shannon and I had a sketch done, sitting side by side. It was fun, though too expensive, as all things tend to be.

Too expensive. Always feeling guilty for what I have spent or am about to spend ... what I have wasted or know I will soon waste. Again I find myself fearing touble before it comes. It's almost as if I am 12 years old again, pushing Shannon to do her work, but she won't, and I know if she doesn't I'll be the one to take the punishment. This feels the same. Much too familiar for me.

And the Grandparent's dog is trying to kill my children, did I mention that? Oh yes. He chases them down and jumps at them, mouth open, teeth ready to clamp down. Eventually I am going to hurt that dog and the Grandparents are going to chase me down and jump at me, mouth open and teeth ready to clamp down.

I've read most books I brought along. I've bought new. Bones of the Moon is done. Fight Club, done. Harlequin Valentine, done. I've read a bit of a book Stormy gave me, a bit of the Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup and a bit of a book I found on a coffee table of the Grandparent's home which is a compilation of several women's essays about surprises in their lives, things noone told them about that happen to all of us. This is a very cozy book that I wish I could bring home with me. Somehow book thievery (is that a word?) seems wrong, especially out of the home of my sister's new grandparent-in-laws, even if they do not like my children.

And where was I going with this? Ah, yes. The emerald butterflies, the Frankenstein alien, the laughing rain. This is why people live in beautiful places. This is why people do not live in Texas. This is why people write, or want to write, or wish they wrote what they thought they thought of the other day that they forgot to remember. This is simply. Why? Yes.

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