Tick. A tick! From the trail. It was on me. Then it climbed on my computer screen as I was watching Buffy reruns in bed. We went online and looked at ticks -- what it would look like if it had sucked my blood. The size of a grape. I can't move today. Tired from yesterday's activities. So much fun though. I need to get out of Los Angeles more often, and Santa Barbara wine country is the perfect place to escape.

Windy today. With a chance of arctic char for dinner. At least I can stand up straight now, before I just couldn't. Couldn't dream of it. I slept forever. Last night I came home, couldn't do anything but watch Buffy. I watched Buffy like I was on a mission, until four in the morning. Just couldn't sleep.

Last Sunday night we get a text message from M's little sister as we're driving back to the Southland: "Your little sister just got married!" Crazy. To elope.

But that's probably what I would do, too. No text messages though. Silly phones.

Last week ~
Monday: I never realized how much cherry pits look like little fairy skulls. Bloody and perfect and small.

Tuesday: The homeless man outside Smart & Final lounged on the grass, washing his feet with antibacterial soap. He was missing his other leg. I hadn't noticed before.

Wednesday: We were trying to finish all the leftovers in the fridge. All the fruit and indian food and vegetables that were going to go bad this weekend. I fell asleep on the bed, my clothes still on, curled up like a shrimp.

Thursday: I biked in my green skirt, my legs pumping out in front of me, and insisted on watching a terrible Netflix horror movie about girls disappearing in Argentina. Somehow made me feel better about the world. The girls were too perfect in this movie. Only one of them died. The other wandered around abandoned buildings, shouting out her friend's name, trying to find the way home.

Friday: There was an accident in between the hills. A yellow rice rocket and a black mustang, both smashed on opposite sides of the freeway. The cop car weaved in front of us, stopping traffic. Ambulances rushed down the sidebar, a white fire truck followed. I looked for hiking trails up the hills and only counted two. As soon as we shut off our car, the lines started moving. We raced down the mountain and drove through Bakersfield, passing yellow trains with the american flag painted on its side, forever billowing.