Christina is making me a grilled cheese made of bleu cheese and orange blossom honey because I found a recipe and told her I wanted it.

The Xiu Xiu show was like a religious experience, if the religion was Paganism goes to the Circus. I loved it.

Last week, I bought a box of some deliciously exotic-sounding coconut pudding/custard bullshit in the foreign food aisle at Giant Eagle. It’s called tembleque, I think.  I spent the better part of a week asking Henry, "Did you make it yet? That coconut bullshit, did you make it? Are you gonna? When?"

This morning, he was out doing some electrical work for his BFF Randy (read: he was hoping to lose his asshole innocence but Randy is a homophobe for real). When the Henry is away, the Erin will play…with things she knows nothing about.

The directions seemed simple: they were divided into two steps. Simple. It doesn’t take long to get to two, I thought.

A few minutes ago, I withdrew the bright pink cereal bowl I chose for the mold. The contents were runny and sloshed around the edges with little movement from me.

"It didn’t WORK," I cried from the kitchen.

"Maybe the bowl is too big?" Henry attempted to hypothesize. "Maybe pour into several smaller —" but I was already leaving the kitchen, hands thrown overhead.

Moments later, as I was sitting in the living room reading a book, he asked, "How long did you let this boil?" I didn’t like how he was standing at the foot of my chaise, mouth all contorted into a familiar expression — the one right before he unleashes the smug sneer of triumph that I know all too well.

I shrugged. "I don’t know…I didn’t know I had to boil it. I had it in the sauce pan but I just mixed it and then poured."

Henry shook his head. "What is with you and directions? You throw them aside and just do. Did you even read the box? I know you know how to read."

"So it’s ruined?" To be honest, I had kind of been over it since an hour after I stowed it in the fridge, because it was taking so long to set. I didn’t consider the possibility that it was my fault; I imagined it was just a very high maintenance dessert packaged in a modest box. Like myself.

"You could probably freeze it," Henry suggested, but I was already thinking about the box of flan that I bought at the same time as the coconut fuck-up.

It’s still in the kitchen, stewing all non-perishably in its package, daring  me.