Today all I ate was biscuits. I made a tin of Buttermilk biscuits and spent the day eating them all. I used an entire stick of butter. While I chewed I thought of wheat and soil, farmers. I smiled, pretending someone could see how wholesome I was being. Like when I went to the movies alone in Tishomingo last night, a small one-screen theater built in 1938, with my popcorn and my soda. I ate the biscuits after they were cold, I ate them after I was no longer hungry, I ate them when I felt sick. I’m eating one now. Baking is wholesome, right? I figured it must be. I feel like I don’t know how to do anything and really mean it. Anything at all but drink and be alone and fuck women who never speak to me again. Baking, though. That’s a thing of home. A good, admirable thing. And I think that if I could only eat enough of them I could become a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon, too. Sometimes I picture an apple tree, straining toward the sun whenever someone happens through the orchard, hoping people see its fruit. Look, it says, see what I can do with only some sun, some soil, some water. You must think it a good thing I was planted here.