While waiting on a Potato

I am brainstorming things I can do that require mostly my head.  I make lists.  I pretend kneelessness.  Once upon a time there was a wicked queen who slowly turned into a column of ice and stone.  (Meanwhile, I am thinking about the 4th of July: a canopied hammock, macaroni salad and iced tea, the feeling of a skirt swirling against bare legs.)  There is a story hidden in the queen's blood: antibodies and enzymes, tightly packed molecules that create alternate bodies, a changeling.  Every day you wake up and something is different.  All of the women are lonely.  All of the women are wearing headscarves and hiding from wolves in winter.  The holiday season cannot end soon enough the fairy lights will come down and the gray will set in and all the wicked queens will freeze and thaw and freeze over again. 

We aren't actually wicked, not really.  Just female and full of poison which is unforgivable, even in technologically advanced societies.

Our dreams are phallic.  Our dreams are not what we wanted.  Once upon a time you wore silver shoes and thought you would run forever, moving through suicide forests, set upon by ravens, bloodied but a fucking survivor not some damned damsel, but still.  But still. Maybe in your next life you can be Xena or Buffy but this time you are the witch who kept Rapunzel in the tower and pretended she was your lost daughter.

All of your doctors tell your that 40 is the magical age where everything begins to break but maybe it is 42 you are past your expiration date your are already in your final phase where the fairy tale ends and you are finally eaten by those winter wolves or cannibalistic huntsmen or gangs of little girls in red coats.

But really all of this is just typing practice for your real, non fairy tale life.  For your next job, your clerical job that must include a pension and an excellent dental plan, preferably government work if you play the odds and pass your exams in alphanumerical sequencing and basic math.

The prisons are hiring and so are the nunneries.

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.