picking at scabs

Oranges in Boumalne du Dades, Dadès Gorges, Mo...

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being a floridian i love oranges. the color like an august moon. the smell, fresh, powerful, a memory, sprays in the air peeling them. for my birthday i drove down to miami. along I-95 there are acres of orange groves. i stopped at one in fort pierce, on my way back home to jacksonville, to take a picture.

funny story. my love for oranges grew in college. i went to school in atlanta. there were baskets and baskets of oranges in the cafeteria. i’d take three. sometimes four. and i’d eat them throughout the day. i think that’s why my hands are so rough. that’s the story i tell people. lotion is a luxury i can’t afford. when i run out i don’t run out and get more. besides lotion is another thing to do to do. to add to the regimine of the day. wash face. brush teeth. eat cereal. pay bills. something to take away from writing.

i’ve been picking at dead skin and scabs around my fingernails all day. i have all these things floating in my head. what chapter to edit next? does this line make sense? why can’t i find a publisher? the always question – why can’t i find a boyfriend? all while i’m packing at my nails. when i’m published i can worry about putting on lotion. i can’t now. i have to write.

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