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.

analogiessmanalogies.

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.

lately.

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

publish post

Here we go fingers it's your turn.

I desperately want to go to the Great Lawn at Purchase in July, and climb that tree with the ditch around it again. I want to lay in and not think, but think too much. When I was little, my mother never let me wear red nail polish. She said it was for grown women. This weekend, I bought myself a bottle. My hands are those of a woman. I suppose.

I'm on this wave of elated emotions. But I'm due for a good cry. I think we're all overdue for a good cry every once in a while. I'm going home tonight to have mine. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm going home to be solemn. All I can think about is a night sky, a field and me in it. The kids are talking about having a fire tonight; I want to see it and nothing else.

my daddy raised me a runner, 'cause he didn't raise me at all.

i think, therefore.

There you are, miniature breakdown. I've been waiting for you; it's been a few months. Oh no, I'm just at work- don't worry about it, come on over. So what do you want to talk about? Ahh the "What the fuck am I doing with my life" conversation again?


my brain is a candle still lit, and it's burning at both ends.

my barely nimble fingers are too tired to type, but the Against Me! i'm blasting is helping me fade in and out of the consciousness necessary to talk to you. I'm laying on the couch of a boy I like writing a movie that might be something great. I wish I had that focus and determination. I could be happy. That might be a definitive emotion. I try not to think about it, but the thought is steady looming. My journal is filling itself quickly. When I started this one, I said that it would be the one about Me. It would be the one, unlike the others, that is full of pages of me- not these tales of boys. But when it comes down to it I buy my pens for them. Relationships with other people are all I have; relationships with boys are the ones I write about.

I've hit my 3 months mark. It's like clockwork- whenever I get cozy with something, someone, somewhere- I want out. But this time, I don't want to run away again. I just want newness. My life seems to change with the seasons. Like the shrubbery, flowers and weeds I want to grow, infest, irritate and beautify. I want to make it beautiful... just have to figure out what it is. Is it strange that all I want to do right now is organize people's closets to make finding clothing and coordinating as simple as possible? My entire existence might revolves around clothes. I'm not upset about that at all.

I should sleep. I have to be at work in 5.5 hours. I sleep for either 3 hours or 12-15. I'm an extremist at heart. (Sometimes) I would rather stay up all night on someone else's couch, than sleep on mine. Speaking of which, my bed is arriving on Saturday- this could change everything in my life.

I miss Fairfax Ave. and walking up the Melrose strip. Ha. Jamie <3.