Things that are salt in the wound:

Anyone who asks "How many" when I am making reservations for restaurants, airline tickets, hotel rooms, any other activity.

My friend Lotte - she constantly tells me how men faun over her.

The fact that I'm being stalked and have no one I can turn to for help.

Nearly every song ever written.

Nearly every story ever written.

The express lane at the grocery store. And the fact that nearly all foods are packaged for families of four.

The fact that I have to take my plants to my chirpractors office when I travel because nearly all of my neighbors moved away.

Vacationing alone.

Heck - the list could go on forever. Hopefully this aloneness can't.

To the dear sweet salt,

You make everything flavorful. I miss you on my open wounds. Life is bland. I hurt too little, and it makes me hurt. I steal pepper shakers and put them in my pockets but it is not the same. They only make me sneeze. I can’t feel alive, and my tongue is lonely. My internal organs are rotting inside me. Ninety eight point six is far from refrigeration. I lack your preserving power. My heart is rotting away and falling off into my stomach acid. I suppose for that I am not hungry. But soon I will have no heart; feed me again?


The famished. The hyponatremic.

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