Goldilocks hits her juul between the 2nd and 3rd bowl of porridge

because choosing is stressful/stupid anyways. You could take the 6 train or the 4 train and still end up at the exact same spot on a Saturday which sounds innocent but totally isn’t I think Goldilocks was probably a project manager or something or maybe a peloton salesperson or maybe arm candy for a sour patch kid.

She developed the cutest nicotine addiction like ever like if those twins from full house were going through a pack a day and had gums like Vince Lombardi/really old rye bread it’s totally fine to learn to hate bears like how hard is it to make a good bowl of porridge? I’m pretty sure the instructions have to be right there on the packaging and doesn’t it feel like overkill to make three large bowls for one small child? She takes one bite of each and she’s full for weeks

so she gets so (so) mad so between bowl two and bowl three she walks into the room where the bears are and removes every bit of oxygen that had been there before she arrived. She watches them roll around gasping at sounds that can’t become yelling before drying her tears, laughing, and saying: “that was productive.” She walks out and forgets to close the door behind her.

And she’s just put a new pod in so the clouds are working in a sort of reverse Hansel and Gretel thing where you’re creating signals of existence but also getting lost on purpose and right now she could probably fly a plane into a volcano full of oatmeal, ‘nirvana has too many names,’ she thinks to herself as she steps over a 6 second vine and what is the difference between porridge and oatmeal anyway? She’d woken up that morning and asked the bears for quaker oats but old people/wild animals are so damn liberal with synonyms nowadays. She’d only wanted a warm bowl of synonym-free oatmeal with just a pinch

of cinnamon and she’s always walking because two of the bears don’t have driver’s licenses and the third got a DUI last year, they found him eating beeswax chapstick with a trunk full of geese and gander.

Today she’s been walking for one and a half pods. Yesterday she walked for four. Her maximum is eight.

So she feels so certain now, like there’s nothing on either side of a balance beam, like maybe everything tomorrow won’t feel like everything today.

The bears cower stacked upon each other like jenga as she reappears as first shadow then person through the front doorway. She sits down at the table in front of the third bowl of porridge which sits in front of her like a window to her third most wildest dream. She picks up the spoon but before she can scoop out a lump, a hand leaps out of the porridge, grabs her, and pulls her into a pit.