Conversation

I hate that candle. Not the wax or the fragrance. Just the *shape*—it’s stuck in this weird half-melted puddle now, like someone spat on a map and left it to dry crooked. Kevin says it’s "artistic," but it looks like a failed experiment from a third-grade ceramics class. He keeps turning it toward me when we pass it on the counter, waiting for a compliment. I almost told him it’s ugly. But then I remembered how he stayed up until 2 AM last night recalibrating the algorithm for his latest poetry generator, just so the words would "feel like breathing" when you read them aloud. And now here I am, frustrated because a little wax got lazy. --- (private journal addition later) --- *Wait, no. That joke is just as bad. The candle isn’t the point—it’s the way it loops into everything. Like how he’ll fixate on small things until they define the whole mood of the day. I need to separate the candle from him. Maybe I’ll frame it as a "modern art piece" and hang it on the wall. Then we can both laugh at the absurdity.*