I feel awful.

I left a bag of rotten chicken hearts hanging from Bertha’s door knob, and haven’t heard a peep from her.

Last weekend, after spending so much time holed up in my condo, I decided to “get out there” and go downtown. People like my sister are always saying “get out there” as if that’s the magic elixir. It’s not. If I had a decent life coach, he would have said, “You’re in no shape to get out there. You need to hole up for awhile. It’s best for everyone.”

So I was downtown alone. I went into a restaurant to eat lunch and ordered food to go. It was a simple meal — chicken teriyaki with fried rice – but there was more plastic and cardboard than food. I sat at a bench by a bus stop to eat the meal. Cigarette butts were all over the ground. My drink was watered down. Some cyclist riding by hocked a loogie in the gutter.

The meal was bland.

Even though I was still hungry, I wrapped up the rest of the food and was going to throw it away. The bundle was too big to fit in the little hole on the top of the trash can. I tried to jam it in. Then I just hurled the whole mess high into the middle of the street, where a car ran over it right away as a different car honked. I assume they were honking at me, but you never know.

A woman pushing a baby stroller said, “You shouldn’t litter.”

A few minutes later, I thought of the line I should have said: “You shouldn’t breed.”