I figured skating would be safe but mom, Amanda Bernstein, and I cried when we watched the Olympics because when we figure skated it didn’t go so well. In fact, Amanda B. broke her toe and she wasn’t even skating. Mom ran her foot over with a skate and she didn’t even do it on purpose even though mom told Amanda B. she did it on purpose. Oh no you didn’t, mom said. Amanda B said stop being so 90s you stupid chicken and mom went all get out and threw her cupcake at Amanda B. Amanda B. loves cupcakes and ate it off the floor. She didn’t literally eat it off the floor. She picked it up first. Mom says this stuff just to piss Amanda B. off. I say stuff just to say stuff like stuff. For example, I just made out with a cupcake and I don’t even like icing. Are cupcakes real cakes? Mini cakes? Or just impossible cakes? I figure skating has more to do with Minkowskian Spacetime than it does with haberdashery or baking. I’m so tired right now. If I were a boy, I’d drink a beer. If I were a girl, I’d drink a beer. Thank god I’m a goat. I’m gonna invent a new friend now. I’ll name him Steve. Maybe I’ll be him one day, a future me. Maybe I am already Steve. Or transitioning. Who is Steve? Is home reality? Is mental health a concept worth identifying? Like home healthcare? This post was about skating, but I don’t care bear. I am the space between identities, like Amanda B. is the space between mom and me.