I think the problem is leftovers. So many things have leftovers that linger around like an unwelcome hangover on a business day. A bad meal has leftovers. Like the sweet and sour chicken my husband made. It tasted like... a certain type of male perspiration. I couldn't eat it, nor could I expunge the taste of the single bite I took. And of course there are leftovers.

Dreams have leftovers. They are the tiny dis-remembered pieces that nag at the mind at inopportune times. Then there are the things that people say, such as when the husband told me what I said while I slept. I do not wonder at it much, even though I do not remember the dream that generated it. The tiredness that comes from a restless sleep that contains too many dreams is also a thing that lingers. It remains until it is time to sleep again, at which time a different set of leftovers takes control.

Sex has leftovers. They can be felt the next day, always there to remind. Maybe I don't want to be reminded. Maybe I want it to be something that happened the night before, with all of its traces vanished when I wake up. If I wanted it to be today, too, then I would do it again today.

I don't like leftovers. They impose themselves on a new moment which would see them left behind. Sometimes that makes me angry. Sometimes it just makes me very, very tired. And then sometimes I am just determined enough to marshall every possible brain cell in the midst of the stench, and do as I please. I wrote an offer on a house. I don't know how I managed it, but I did. My other building is still delayed and may or may not close. I don't know if I can come to agreement with the seller on this latest find, but with this offer, I spit on leftovers. I spit on them with every productive move I manage to make. To hell with leftovers and may they all be damned. They can't control my progress. I won't let them. I'll stop them or I'll die trying.