that makes us grab that chip, the glass
of wine, the cigarette. Do you want it? Do
you need it? Does it really matter? It’s
reflex that makes you do it, no matter. It’s

become a habit. The brain doesn’t
think. The hand takes over. It works well
with some things, like my writing. Not so
much with others. I’m no Stepford wife. Yet

I feel like a puppet, entangled in my own
strings. I blame it on the reflex. It makes me
do certain things. Call it impulse. I can’t
retract. I stole that black Ugg from the store. I

can’t go put it back! It was the slip of my wrist
that took it. My fifth, but whose keeping
track?