My computer is propped up against my Keurig while I watch all the Kurt Vonnegut interviews I can find and cook dinner. Rice in the rice cooker and stories of the devastation he witnessed, mingle into appreciation. Frozen stir fry with stir fry sauce and paper plates piled on the table. Too hungry to wait, I pop “tastes” into my mouth before dinner’s properly heated. I’m far too sober but I haven’t felt like wine much these days. I’m conflicted with my love of fantasy and the love I have of my own reality. Both rich in spirit and love. So I sit in silence and eat my stir fry with glutenous white rice at my handed down wooden table in my scarred wooden chair. I look out the sliding glass door in search of cat eyes that glow with curiosity. When I find none, I crawl into bed and…