on Sunday I had a funny
premonition that my weekly
box of food, that comes each
Monday and has 14 fresh-made
meals, was not going to arrive.
there was precedent. but surely
I was just being a little dramatic
and there was no real reason I
should think that it wouldn’t come.
it did not. it was the perfect storm
in which, thanks to my box not
arriving, I went forty-eight hours
without eating. Tuesday and
Wednesday. I used to love reading
the tabloid prognosticator’s predictions
back in the 1970s, thinking what a lovely
job, to pretend to see the future. I
think I prefer not being able to see
the future. let Jeane Dixon remain
Jeane Dixon. I want no part of it,
Past, Present or Future.
