• All of life seems to be about finding your glasses when you can't see because you don't have your glasses.
  • I am beginning to doubt whether I ever owned glasses to begin with; ever even needed a prescription. Maybe my eyes are just closed.
  • I can take this further. But will refrain.
  • Pains in just bones. Not particular ones, or ones that I could point out. Not pointable pains. Just bones existing and protesting that each day you ask them to continue doing so.
  • I do a lot of laying. Under too many blankets, during too obviously midday.
  • I don't fully understand pithy. But feel like that is what I am aiming for? As I grasp for my nonexistent glasses.
  • I need a new book.
  • Really though, guys, I am twenty. And this is sad because nineteen was more of an excuse than an age. And I remain in need of a good excuse. For my hair, and my bad decisions, and the particular way I love people that bruises their shoulders and nerves, and for sleeping too much and too soundly. For talking and laughing too loudly, but saying most important things in a six year old girl whisper or not at all.
  • An excuse for being me. I'm nineteeeen.
  • Except I'm twenty.
  • Except I'm twelve.
  • I'll be fine. I just need to lay down for a couple of years.
  • Your cotton ball sleeps on the back of my legs and tickles me right where I can't take it the most.
dec 19 2010 ∞
dec 27 2010 +