tomorrow cannot be nigh fast enough

Sometimes letting go feels like diving in. I fry these three small quail eggs and put them on top of beans and cheese. I'm saving up for the zen garden in neko atsume. Every day I make a detailed list of all the ways money leaves me. I look at a 4" x 6" scale drawing of my new apartment for fifty-eight minutes every day while I'm at work. I make lists of my belongings. I draw different ways of arranging my plants in front of their new windows. I look at blue velvet chaise lounges on the internet. I argue with the UPS customer service representative for not delivering my package on time. I get my money back. I talk to my mom on the phone twice a week. I put lavender oil on my wrists and neck. I read about the cellular make up of plant stems. I think about making out with boys in elevators and European squares and in my kitchen. I want tomorrow so badly to deliver me to May.