I don't even know a Jesse.

[novapsyche]

So the dishwasher is running, sloshing around the various dishware slotted inside. The rhythm of the water has almost a music to it. As I stood slicing pre-made Toll House cookie dough onto a cookie sheet, I imagined that words could be matched to the cadence of the machinations.

At first, the lyrics sounded like "Jesse with the leapfrog". So I danced to that for a while, barefoot in a tiny kitchen, licking dough from the yellow plastic casing.

Then the lyrics changed to "Jesse with an eight-ball". I've never known anyone to have an eight-ball besides those that portend vague omens. Still, the switch seemed a bit sinister. I stopped jigging.

Then, "Jesse with the napalm". Although it was & is not morning.

Then, "Jesse with the inkblot". Which, while it may be silly, was a bit less concerning than the other options.

Finally, I decided it had to be Jesse with the spondee.

The dishy orator must have some form of attention deficit, because now it's all "We want jerky".