She made me oatmeal when we woke up. I suggested she use the percolator, but she was adamant about the microwave. It turned mushy, a soup of off-white flakes swimming, drowning in a teal bowl. The thought was nice but I'm still hungry. That generally seems to be the case.

I biked to school in the rain today. My feet latched into the cages of the pedals so they wouldn’t slip out and I rounded the corner behind a white utility van. Cars passed and splashed down the uneven road, stopping as I would fly through red lights only to pass again. The shallow puddles that filled each pothole exploded behind me and the water rode my back all the way to class.
These same puddles rained down with such ferocity, such immensity in the thunderstorm last night that they could've killed someone. Each point of rain hit the old roof and reverberated, echoed around the Fourth of July living room. The wind knocked over our charred-metal grill and it splattered in the yard.

Our friend Daniel wanted to bike home in the storm and we wouldn’t let him. It’s not safe, Daniel! we said. But here I am. Shoulders cutting through the downpour with a slick black jacket acting as knife. Helmet forcing water into my eye lashes and down my cheeks, dripping slowly off my chin. Tires destroying puddles with each adamant, hungry lurch on the pedals.

Sometimes I feel like I’m swimming, drowning through the streets of Eau Claire, but today I keep my head above water, razor-thin wheels gutting the pavement of State Street.