one of my favorite memories as a kid was laying outside of my mom's bathroom door early in the morning listening to her blow-dry her hair. right now i'm sitting in my thinking chair listening to the bathroom fan imagining—the carpet is rough against my five year old cheek. a sliver of fluorescent light creeps out from under the door, the only light in the room. the sun hasn't come up yet. i'm curled up in one of my dad's t-shirts that goes past my knees; the one that has crossed golf clubs across the front. i can barely hear the constant and consistent whir of the fan as it ejects a hot stream of air. the noise is comforting. it consumes my conscious and makes me feel as if—someone turned off the fan. i've stopped imagining. i'm in my chair. it's late. the sun has gone down. i need my fan. someone, please anyone, turn on my fan.
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