For the second time in two years, a boy drugged me with ambien to keep me overnight. And it was the second time in two years I stayed the night.

Ellie had asked me if I would ever let A. stay over. I explained my sleeplessness in the presence of others, and that I would definitely try, but not with the roofers waking me up at dawn all week. I asked if her brother was dissapointed that I kicked him out. She said no, but that she was dissapointed he didn't get to make me breakfast.

So last night I put my worries away and brought my toothbrush to his place. He lives in a gorgeous house surrounded by gardens. His room and belongings are appropriately modest, but the rest of the house is all hardwood floors, leather couches, skylights, and artwork that looks like it might cause a sensation if it were to appear on Antiques Roadshow. It belongs to his roommate's father, who I met two years ago when he joined pastry Jenny and Eric in secular matrimony.

My ambien wore off before the sun was up. I lay in his bed, awake, but nevertheless, the warmest, happiest spoon in the drawer.

I hear chickens waking up in the coop. Odd. In Joe's Mission apartment I would wake up way to early to a neighborhood rooster. Now I listen to a hen struggling to push out an egg. I have never heard this process before. I am hoping this is the first step in the making of my breakfast.

I can't stop giggling because somehow the phrase "hot chicken pussy stretched to the breaking point" popped into my head. I think it came from a junk email.

Too late for breakfast. Instead, coffee at Royal, and then to the screen printer to pick up prison abolitionist hoodies.