an experiment in stream of consciousness

for literature:


She turned the stove on before there was water in the pot. Then she trekked across the kitchen four times to fill the cup, to fill hte pot. The water boiled slow and the sauce simmered in the background. Eventually the water bubbled and boiled and the girl poured in the box of rigatoni, lost in thought. She stirred. And stirred. And stirred. for 10 minutes, until the timer beeped. And then she poured her ingredients in to the baking dish formulaicly--sauce, pasta, sauce, pasta, sauce, pasta, sauce, cheese. She covered it with foil and put it in the oven. Her family's dinner would be out in 40 minutes.

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Tick, tick, tick, flame. I forgot the water, didn't I? Fill the cup, dump it in the pot. Again. Again. Again. This water couldn't boil any slower. Salt. Where's my recipe? And my pasta? Boil. Boil, water, boil. Finally. Plop. Don't boil over. And don't splatter hot water on me. Oh, geez, the sauce is going to simmer over, too. Like that time the sauce boiled over so much that it spilled onto the floor. It was a mess. The birthday cake, too. Wasted food. Would kids in Africa or India benefit from that, if they could have it? Oh, it's buzzing. Off. Off. Off. Scoop, spoon, layer. Like lasagna and listening to Francis Chan podcasts. Why am I not listening to Francis Chan now? Or Robert Bishop? Mmm, I hope Amanda comes to Selah tonight. Oh no, I have to get there an in hour because Cari and I are going to talk. About tattoos. And college. And boys. I wish he could come to Hume. I miss Hume. Snow, sleds, the lake, food, getting to know Joanna, being on team Roboschool, and the Emobots, and conversations. Ohh, conversations--gotta write that on my Torrey app. Ah, that oven is warm. 375 is pretty toasty. Ooh, I haven't had toast in a while. Toast, I want toast. 38, 39, 40. 40 minutes to write lit terms. Then eat. I'm going to be late to meet Cari.