Tough. (I don’t feel tough though, my tongue
is on the gritty floor and covered in dirt and
debris from a weekend of debauchery. I don’t
feel anything other than tired.) I’m told the
blue jays mate even when they’re dying, as if
evolution could not hold a reverent bow
for the last breath of an angry bird. Supposedly
that attitude was in the contract I signed
a year ago, though the angry part suits me
the best. I didn’t used to be so angry.
I think I used
to be tough.