In the ground, little bird.
You have nothing to offer this world, so quit trying.
I keep getting out of bed in the morning, at 6, somehow.
It gets done. I'm getting a belly and I'm beginning to get varicose veins in my hands.
I keep hoping I can smooth them out again to no avail.
The more I look at this, the more I wonder if I'm a sacrificial lamb instead of an apprentice.
Cross your fingers for me and hope it's not a cross I'll be nailed to.
I miss the Island.
I've missed so many moments wrapped up in what I shouldn't be.
Spinning my hot wheels cars into the nearest wall and as I'm picking up the pieces of the wreckage, I'm told I needn't have driven in the first place.
Don't scoff at the fact that I whipped out a highlighter. I wanted to make sure I got the story right. When you scoffed, I panicked and I just wrote. and wrote. and it came out, All. wrong.
Thanks.
Thanks.
Thanks.
A 'Thanks' dealt on autopilot feels worse then nothing at all.
A moment of melodrama brought to you by your not-so-local something or other.
I say so seriously, I have no idea who I am anymore.
Who are you?
Someone's got to be someone around here.
I saw All the President's Men for my first time last night.
I'm not kidding; I'm that much of a loser that I've only just seen All the President's Men.
It was. fucking. gold with a side of opals.
