I get the spaghetti

This is it.

This is when I get the dog. The best dog ever. The best dog ever with the cutest, little ears that spring up whenever his name is called. Or whenever something is said. Or whenever he is hungry. Whenever, whenever.

I gotta have it. I gotta have the dog. This is for my sanity, you know?

My dad comes in. Disrupting my thoughts. He wants me to make dinner. Why do I have to make dinner? He says it’s because I am not the child anymore. Am I not the child anymore? How old do you have to be to ‘not be the child anymore?’

“You must make dinner.” He says again. “Can you do that?”

“I can do that,” I tell him.

I am 20. I am free as a bird. I live with my parents. You know, to escape the rent. To escape the world around me. That’s where the dog comes in, you know. But I like birds, too. Maybe I should get a bird? What are birds like? Do they fly high? Do they jump at all? Will they give me big hugs when I cry? Will they force me to get outside, get walking? See the world? I don’t know. Maybe I want the dog. That’s what I always said I wanted. So that’s what I will keep with.

Oh no. I do have to make dinner. So I get the spaghetti. And the sauce. And I stir it in a pan. I try to get the clumps out. Why are there clumps?

I eat the food. It is bland. Too red. Keeps my eyes open too long. So I decide to leave. I don’t need to eat. I need to sleep. This is why I need the dog.

My brain goes off. It is night. I go to sleep. I dream of my future dog. This is gonna be when I get the dog. The best dog ever.

Please. Please.

“I can do that.”

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