i made cinnamon rolls for breakfast,
which one of my roommate's and i ate. happily.
i made pancakes in a saucepan and called it college.
i played at doing a handstand and wondered
how many push-ups and how much more faith-in-gravity
i have to go.
the pancakes are for a play i wrote.
two minute play.
i burned one side of one of the five i made and fanned at the smoke detector
for five minutes even though there was no smoke to begin with.
the last thing i want is the fucking fire department in my tiny kitchen.
(though one of my aunts once told my about how she heated a pyrex pan and then ran water over it and it burst into a thousand pieces or something, so the fire dept. had to be notified and "like half a dozen of the best-looking men i've ever seen were in my kitchen." i was like fifteen, i didn't know what to do with this story. i still don't. my aunts are silly. she advised me to get pyrex pans to attract good-looking firefighters, that was the moral of the story.)
i like baking.
it's a nice thing to do.
but nice nonetheless.