Did I ever tell you about the time I needed to say I love you? For a long time before that, I said it to someone. Then they left. But I still needed to say it. More than before, too. It was like phantom limb, but with love, not limb. So I started saying I love you to people I never said it to before. I even said it to my lamp. Morphology.
Vicky had a wart. She didn’t just have a wart; she was her wart. For a week, she looked in the mirror, in the bathroom, naked, alone, studying it. It was hers. Each day, though, she got smaller and the wart got bigger. But it was still her. Mycology.
You know, I always chop the garlic up into small little bits like those. Otherwise, late at night, it repeats. If you look really closely — see look, there’s one. Sometimes they get turned up, buttery yellow like that in the sauce when I stir. Itty bitty bites. There’s another one. And another. Hey, that looks like Cassiopeia. Gastronomy.
Homework. Cool. A queen bee might lay a thousand eggs. Probably more, though. Many are fertilized already. And some get royal jelly, not just honey. The Hawaiian bird called the Moha, or ʻōʻōʻāʻā in Hawaiin, doesn’t actually eat honey. It’s a nectarivore. But they stopped laying eggs. They’re all gone. Do you have to be in love to make an egg? What if nobody loves me? What does love feel like? What if you have to fart with someone you love? Well, sometimes when somebody loves you, and you love them, nothing more needs to happen. But also, a lot can happen. Actually a hundred million things can happen. But even then, something doesn’t necessarily happen. It only takes one to make it happen! And it has to be real curious, that one. Oh. What does that one have to be curious about? Alright, it’s almost time for dinner. Wait, why were you yelling, “o, o, a, a,” last night? Oology.