i can't/don't/won't write anymore. The one thing I seem to have avoided over-analyzing is on the chopping block these days and when I pick up the pen, I get mean. I keep having this recurring daydream of living alone (or if I HAVE to, a two bedroom) with a kitty. There is minimal furniture and no television. Everything is where it should be, dishes in the sink, underwear on the bathroom floor- because who cares, it's all my mess. If and when I clean it up, I'll be cleaning up after myself.

So many things about other people piss me off.

I'm happiest when I'm at work. Wherever work may be and even when I hate the job. I am happiest when I am doing. When I'm not active, I prefer to be asleep. I suppose the trend here is my desire to not think about my outside life as often as possible. I will work and sleep it away. Unfortunately, like that fucking cat I made the mistake of feeding that one time, it will be waiting at my door step again and again when I return.

So I never go home.

There will be a day, when my white walled studio apartment and black cat named after a romantic comedy will be waiting and I will be satisfied. Until then I'll just keep working. I left my job on Friday, had a new one by Wednesday. I was built a fine machine.



the next time I see you, i'll probably talk about a lot of things that I won't actually do. I'll probably be really really happy and think about how many people actually know who I am and get quiet. I do that sometimes; I'm sorry. None of the people who have any idea of who I am share DNA with me. Isn't that weird? Or is it just sad? I don't know anymore. my mother thinks i've gone crazy. my sister's don't know me and everyone from work thinks i tried to kill myself.

and i think i'm happier than ever.



This whole love thing- it’s sort of like riding a bicycle. Hear me out. Bicycles are alluring. Everyone wants to have one -to own it –to ride it. Then finally, you find the one. And it’s intimidating. Slowly, you figure it out; it stops being scary and you get used to the motion. But that’s just it- that is where the problem lays, in getting used to the motions.

Like your first bicycle, you out grow it. If you’re anything like me, there might be a span of years between your first bike and the next. The next ride approaches, and frozen, you realize that you must’ve have forgotten how to ride- yet, you get back on. You’re wobbly; the propelling of motion tenses your muscles. But again you get used to the motions. Love, is like riding a bicycle. It’s liberating. You fall, you get back up and
you never forget how to do it.



even if this doesn't work out
i think (hope) we're going to be better people because we've met