One day I'll go in the fridge drawer with a knife and grater, sample all twelve kinds in there.

Writing is telling the truth, and I want to tell the truth. Except when I am in the rare position to actually be able to tell it. In that case, I don't want to anymore. Which is also how loving and adventure and Nirvana go.

Instead I will tell a smaller thing, and its the feeling of the grocery store. Here, I watch a girl in the cheese section perusing. She is an unhappy person, who sleeps most days and spends her waking hours on adderal, xanax bars, alcohol, weed, and sometimes cocaine. I love the different kinds of cheese, as does she. I am from T., a well off family. She is from T., a family of millionaires. I watch her for signs of our differences, but that's like trying to tell a human from an android in Phillip K. Dick's novel. Irish white cheddar makes one shape, and something softer makes another. I could describe the red wax and distinct aroma here in detail, but I don't recall the distinct aroma after all. Is there a distinct aroma? And red wax seems to say enough. But this girl, in addition to larger wedges that catch her eye, also selects the smallest square packages to purchase. These are my fav. I always get them, she says. They have a simple black and red plastic wrapping. And after throwing seven in the cart, she looks at the price sticker and sees that each mouthful-size package is three dollars. She laughs and puts more in.