I went for a long run and then I had a long shower and then I put on fun makeup and went to the market where I bought an eggplant.

It is quite beautiful with its smooth glossy purple skin, its firmness without being hard. It does feel more than a little like Logan’s cock. Probably it’s a little bigger. Not as warm. My fingers do not glide along the eggplant skin the way they do along Logan’s cock skin. Maybe if I added some oil. At checkout I blushed. I couldn’t help it. Anyway, I’m not going to fuck it, I’m going to peel it and slice it and sprinkle grated cheese on top and bake it in a broth of diced tomato and chopped onion and crumbled brown sugar. Then I’m going to eat it.

Okay, it’s baking now. At the library this afternoon I read a novel about a troubled girl, 25, Irish, who hoped to be an artist. A conceptual artist. She spent the summer at the cottage of her dead grandmother taking pictures of dead animals. It was definitely a sad story. I have mixed feelings about conceptual art. Like really the most important thing is the concept, and the realization is almost superfluous, even though sometimes it’s call performance art. I think art should include old-fashioned craftsmanship and not just creating a book by Xeroxing a white sheet of paper over and over until the last page is practically black.

I’m a little worried about Rachel. She didn’t come. Maybe I should call her or text her. The only good thing is I didn’t have to worry about whether or not to give her the screwdriver or the screw. That reminds me that they’re still in my purse.

Thinking back, I can’t remember any thoughts I had while I was running. Mindless. Oh, there’s the oven. Maybe my eggplant is done.