Uncaffeinated

She sighed, shooting a glare at the coffee machine. It was teasing her with its meticulous silver sheen; however no coffee was to be made that morning. Sighing again in frustration, the receptionist rubbed her temples, a sure sign of an oncoming migraine.

Her day passed by like a movie montage, people coming and going, papers signed, phones ringing. It sped up and slowed down constantly and became a giant technicolour blur.

Checking the clock for the millionth time that day, a realisation came to her. Making her way to the coffee machine, she pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, exasperated. No one had switched it on.

An ode to Greenacres; or, why I hate thee.

Your carpark, full of speed freaks and snails. What is a rear view mirror?

Savings brand dim sims on a Wednesday night. Lick your lips and stare into space. 

Salmonella chicken. Need I say more?

Indian restaurant in a Blockbuster. What costs more, overdue fees or butter chicken?

Visit the bank. What do you mean my girlfriend withdrew all me savings?

Minecraft tshirts. Haute couture a la Greenacres. 

Spud shop. Here, gone, here. Wish you were gone!

Remember Sam’s Warehouse? Me neither!

Why are the banh mi sitting on the counter? And the doughnuts taste like fish. Help!

Subway. Worker has the flu. She wipes her nose. Bonus sick day for you. 

Don't get up...

There's something about 5:30am. The silence, the dark. Even when it's cold, there's just something about lying down, huddled under the blankets. Eyes open or eyes closed, it doesn't matter. That stillness in the air. The person sleeping next to you, breathing softly as their chest rises and falls, hair flopping on the pillow. You're alone with your thoughts, but it's not like other times. There's a clarity that you don't get at any other time. The cat senses you're awake and crawls up and snuggles on your chest. The purrs just become white noise.

Pancakes

She'd left him upstairs, his body tangled in a mess of sheets from the hot, sticky evening prior. The sky was grey and cloudy this morning, but she just tugged the worn, green 'Faber' jersey closer around her chest. Yawning softly, and blinking slowly, she let her bare feet pad down the carpeted stairs and into the lounge room. Throwing the curtains open, what little sunlight streamed into the room was beautiful, playing on the carpet and setting off rainbows. With a soft, dreamy smile on her face, she moved into the kitchen, assembling the ingredients for her famous buttermilk pancakes. The coffee pot kicked into action, humming and buzzing as the slightly bitter scent filled the air. Singing softly as she mixed the batter and heated up a frying pan, she was surprised when a pair of arms slid around her waist, pulling her into him tightly before his hand rose to wipe the smudge of flour off her cheek. 

Ripped off.

I'm feeling ripped off constantly. Losing my baby at 21 weeks. Hitting the Caesarian date in February and it passed as I worked. No nesting, no bodily changes. I'm now two weeks away from my original due date and it hurts my heart knowing I won't be doing "normal" pregnancy stuff. I'm not on maternity leave, I didn't take classes. I'm not going to go through a regular labour. And yet, more than anything my mind feels stuck in the 21 week gestation state. I need to hold my little girl in my arms one more time and it won't happen. Not now. Not ever. She'll be in my heart, yes. I have a couple of little mementos but her room is empty and undecorated. I just feel cheated. 

Love is...

Anna Irene.

Guilt

I've had a mostly good day today, I went into some effort getting ready for work and have felt busy, and because of this, I feel guilty for not being sad. For not thinking of Anna.

I am a terrible parent.