Cinnamon rolls

I knew I had one potato left so the idea was use it for French fries. Problem was Jennifer threw out my oil. (But she left the jar.) 

I have the jar of beef tallow whatever that is. 

I am ready. I have my pot, have my oil, go for the potato and its old af. 

It's like a movie. I want to make French fries but Jennifer throws out my oil and the one potato is so old that it's growing new plants. 

It's been adorable watching everyone conform to suggestions they've gleaned from the press about how to get along during Coronavirus. Everyone walking around with paper medical or craft masks or with handmade masks made from handkerchiefs but still walking together so that everyone looks like a gang of ne'er-do-wells. They know that they're not protecting themselves. They're protecting us from them. So, thank you. You're all lovely. 

My neighborhood of Denver is similar to a town of zombies right now. Walking just a few blocks I'll encounter only a few people such as living dead. They don't want to talk. And I do look like a bum. The outsiders do not want to talk. The insiders are talkative as ever. You could not have planned this more ironically. On the sidewalk I am approaching a man and a woman wearing masks and walking next to each other. Our trajectories have us intersect at the precise tightest spot that was designed as afterthought. We are walking the way designers planned for us. They planned to compress us. The new sidewalk-work compresses sidewalk traffic mindlessly. 

We'll meet on the little sidewalk ramp that replaced the curb step from the sidewalk to the street. You see the designs change; old gray sidewalks, new red ramps. They made the old sidewalks handicapped accessible.  What's weird is they got cute about it and made the ramps more narrow than the sidewalks so foot traffic is narrowed considerably. For some weird reason having to do with maths and statistics as we are walking our separate paths in separate directions on the sidewalks the only three people within blocks will intersect on the little red concrete pad brought together more tightly as a chute for water more so than a ramp for wheelchairs. (Go narrower for the wheelchairs ... ¿)

It was just so weird. For the city. To instruct us all to separate while having already designed the city physically to direct us so that three lonely dots go boink right on their little red dot. Literally red. A literal dot. The woman wasn't having it. She walked w-a-a-a-y around on the grass just to avoid me. Well, I do look like a bum.

I forgot the goddamn cinnamon.