Woke up from a dream in which I was being made to write the name of all the state capitals onto notecards (1 per) and then alphabetically sort them by last letter into plastic containers that had been permanently stained by spaghetti sauce. I had made it to Vermont's and I couldn't remember. A person in the audience who looked exactly like me but with a big mustache stood up and threw a snowball. As the snowball was about to make impact, it would reset to the moment it left the person's hand. This occurred nine-hundred thousand times or something. Do you honestly expect me to keep track? Then it hit me. You would have thought I had enough time to prepare for that feeling, but the shock of cold was just as sudden as if I hadn't known it was coming. Then a second snowball cymbal-crashed against my face, then a third, and the remaining nine-hundred thousand that hadn't loaded in yet.

Dear Montpelier, I have no plans to visit (as of re-writing this) and if you're from there or know someone from there or have a nostalgic connection to there because you used to go on family vacations there, don't judge me that harshly for having forgotten. Based on name alone (I took 3 semesters of French at college, you can't get anything past me) I'm going to guess you can probably find a good doughnut in town. I might be wrong (I took 3 semesters of French in college, averaging a low C). Preliminary research did not reveal a plethora of bakeries in Montpelier, let alone establishments specializing in donuts. It appears Yelpers and Tripadvisors are in agreement about Birchgrove Baking being the best-rated. They must be pretty good because their site claims "no doughnut phone orders," unless they're referring to a doughnut phone: a functional, donut-shaped telecommunication device that you can use to dial up friends, family, and strangers if and only if they, too, claim the title of donut diehard.

That reminds me, I might move to the middle of a mountain and start a book club. The objective for the book club would actually not be reading books but looking for rocks that resemble animals (and/or bad feelings) and rehearsing slow music that becomes really fast by the end while sharing what scares you most that is least concerning and vice versa. I'll go first.

I change my mind, I'll go last.

My buddy stops by one cool night wearing a cool outfit and even cooler sunglasses. We sit atop the monkey bars, mouths open, intent on eating the wind. This activity is a moderate failure so we go home and dedicate the evening to rearranging furniture with our eyes closed. The thought being that this will, comparatively, result in an even bigger failure. As it turns out we sort of enjoy the way the sofa faces the wall and with the television set on the ground — having to stand over it and stare down to understand what is happening. It's similar to being late to a funeral. It's similar to calling a funeral "short-lived" before realizing that maybe isn't the best way to phrase what I mean. The ceremony's length was brief. Everyone got home before they thought they would.

Right before my birthday, my cat experiences sudden heart failure. He is inside a little box at the emergency clinic and it’s supposed to help him breathe and if he comes out of the box they tell me he won’t be able to continue living. The little box has a hatch on it that I can open for a few minutes at a time. They give me a chair so that I can sit in front of the little box. The doctor says his chest is full of fluid. That his lungs are surrounded by fluid and even if the fluid were to be drained, the fluid would come back. That this process probably began a week ago, and that he kept his pain invisible until he couldn't any longer. Machines shaped like little boxes hum and click all around me. The little box I brought Herodotus here in is on the little box tile floor beside other little boxes, empty. Little box room. Little box building. Little box in a little box, everything getting smaller then bigger. Flattening, fragmenting. I don't understand it, I say out loud as people by, pointing to my little box of a head.

Herodotus eating peas. Herodotus atop the shoulders of a friend. Herodotus going after a piece of string in the middle of the night at the bottom of the stairs then sprinting full-force into my bedroom and slurping loudly from the small mug I've positioned on the floor just for him. Herodotus meowing extensively at every single person he meets. Herodotus waiting on the couch for me to come home. Herodotus watching me paint trees. Herodotus leaping to the counter, to the mantel, to the back of my chair. Herodotus lying down next to the window to take a nap and a little box of light lying down right next to him.

I open the hatch on the little box and reach for him: the soft spots behind his ears, the lone patch of white fur on his chest, the bridge of his broad nose. I close the hatch. He stares at me.

I open the hatch on the little box and reach for him: brush him from the top of his head to the end of his tail, scratch his cheeks and chin. I close the hatch. He stares at me.

I open the hatch on the little box and reach for him: even in the face of death, a good feeling feels good.