Paçzki (002)

Reading back through my writing—six years, twenty four hours, it doesn’t matter—I critique myself far too much. Delete that sentence, you could have said this better, just edit the damn thing already, you messed up the url when you made it.

The heating pad scrunched between a white with gold polka dot couch cushion and my back soothes the day’s bending and lifting. “We never ended up getting paçzki.” No, I’m soft enough, I tell him.