I’ve had my eye on a twenty-five pound bag of gluten free flour for a week.

I don’t bake and I’m not gluten free, so a twenty-five pound bag of gluten-free flour could really change my life.

I also found a place to buy raw honey in bulk. Twelve pounds for $44 or 60 pounds for $230. $230 divided by sixty comes to less than four dollars a pound plus shipping.

I’m wondering which piece of furniture I can get rid of to fit the honey in my apartment.

“You might have a problem,” Tim says, with a quick glance in my direction. He sees I’ve pulled out the calculator.

I have a wild-eyed, watery look in my eyes. I am salivating over the calculator’s keys.

“I’ll never have to buy honey again.”

“They have reality shows for this sort of thing,” he reassures me. “Don’t worry. There’s help.”


The Hurricane blew into town a couple of nights ago.

He’s a friend, a guy who walks through the world with the joy of a summer squall. The gusts are balmy, but strong, and the rain warm, but he leaves in his wake a confusion of scattered clothes, tangled hair, strewn paper, and the whipping kite-ends of ideas. It’s quiet right now. He’s sleeping. And I feel like I am in the eye of the storm.

Last night, we found ourselves standing outside a store-front psychic’s home. He asked if I wanted to talk to her.

“No,” I said, so he rang the bell.

She buzzed us in.

“This is going to end badly,” I thought. I walked through the door.


“I’ve been eating the grain.”

“What grain?”

His eyes widen. I shouldn’t have mentioned the grain.

“The grain I bought.”

“How much grain?”

“Just – twenty-five pounds of quinoa…”

“Uh huh.”

“And the twenty-five pound bag of cornmeal…. Organic.”

“Go on.”

I wince. “And twenty-five pounds of brown rice. That might’ve been a mistake.”

He purses his lips.

“But I gave a lot of it away,” I explain and his expression softens. “And the popcorn’s almost gone.”

“You have a problem.”

“A lot of people buy in bulk,” I say.

“Yes, but they live in houses.”

He has a point.

“The seaweed’s really inspired me to cook…”

“Well, we know you’re not a hoarder, but you still might need help.”


The Hurricane has committed the both of us to a three-in-one reading.

I am going first.

We sit in a converted hallway closet. She hands me her deck of tarot. “Meditate, ask a question, focus your intention as you shuffle.”

I meditate on three. May as well try to get an extra answer or two in there.

“Love, work, or career?” She cuts the deck in three.

I shrug. “Career, I guess.”

An disapproving glance, a subtle tsk. She chooses the third pile.

“You are single,” she reads the cards, “your love life is suffering. You need to find someone. You’re not even giving love a chance. Until you do, you’ll never be happy. Everything suffers. Does this make sense?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty happy.”

“No. You’re not happy. You only think you’re happy.”

I smile. “I feel happy. Most of the time.”

“You’re not happy,” she insists. “You’ve given up on happiness. You’re numb.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not happy. Maybe I’ve surrendered so much of my hope to the graveyard of battered dreams that waking up and doing the work has become a hollow habit.

She catches my eye and sadly shakes her head. “You’re not happy at all.”


Tim suggests I date a survivalist.

“You might find someone with similar interests.” His voice is reassuring, quietly nudging me to make sense of my life.

“I think sixty-pounds of honey would be -”

“Hush,” he says. “Look.”

“Don’t face the future alone,” is the headline of the survivalist singles website.

Right now, I can’t face the future at all. I think I’ll book a facial.

“That’s good,” Tim encourages me. “You’re practicing buying single items and experiences.”

My head hangs low. “I bought a package of five.”


I had a dream years ago. I was searching for something ethereal. An idea. I wasn’t happy or sad, elated or devastated, I just was. I felt dreamlike in my dream, walking through a house with other people walking through their dreams.

A willowy girl approached me and offered me a mushroom. “A lot of people don’t like these,” she warned. “They’ll show you great beauty, but also great sadness.”

“I’m not afraid of sadness,” I said and I took her gift.


Numbness isn’t sadness. And sadness isn’t numb.

Numb is an under-baked recipe of emotions that cancel each other out, mixed colors, subtle flavors, each building on the other creating a barely memorable state of mind. Numb isn’t bad. It isn’t good. It just is.

I think I’ll take my numb mostly happy, with a sprinkle of despair and a dash of disappointment. And I’d like a pint of sadness on the side, my guilty pleasure, to indulge in on those rare nights when I’m alone and wish I wasn’t.


“You know,” says Tim, “they might have a twelve step program for bulk buyers.”

“Really” I perk up. Think of that. Twelve steps for the price of one.



1 thought on “Bulk

  1. Haha!!! This is great. I find buying in bulk to be far too tempting as well. Perhaps Costco being the best example for me. Twenty-five pounds sounds reasonable.

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