Frosted flakes have never tasted so good. I am losing track of time, of when things happened, finally, I am always counting, days, weeks, hours, and I'm starting not to. I am trying to find a gaudy way to describe Heather's thighs, and who is Heather? and maybe this is why I love writing about her because she is no one in particular. My creative writing teacher thinks I'm implying a sexual attraction to Heather in my poems, but in reality it is my projection of the sexual attraction boys feel towards her and my post-feminist thoughts keep being challenged and all during my women's health class I take mental notes to add to Heather's repertoire. I sound crazy, I don't curr.