The sun is rising; my time is setting. There’s nothing I’d rather do right now than what I’m doing right now. But nothing in my brain makes any sense. Who knew?
I’m cluttered. Who has a broom?
I’ve looked for me in a multitude of things, but I’m empty-handed (save a pile of evidence that I’ve gone and spent too much money and wasted too much time). I’m wasting time right now. Good thing I’ve run out of money to spend.
Does the word eccentric really mean anything else besides crazy?
There’s a strange hue to the trees out there. They’re a blend of green and popcorn jelly bean. I’m not sure if autumn is here, or if it’s only come midway. Maybe the green leaves will fall on their own, and Autumn will feel as though she’s gotten away with procrastinating, like a student who managed an A, even though she threw the essay together an hour before.
Even my similes are finite.
7:40 and I’ve caught another blog. I’ve caught blogs before, treated them with excess writing and memes that only I find funny. It’s always best to rest with your feet up (and maybe swallow an entire bowl of cookie dough ice cream in front of Amelie). Sadly, there is no cure. There’s no pulling the threads from something sewn into you at age four. Once I wrote “The Cat and the Alien,” my doom became an inevitability.
I confided in my cat yesterday, told her:
writing is a thankless passion.
But if it wasn’t worth it, I wouldn’t be dry heaving at 5am, occasionally bringing up a paragraph or two.
Gravity is only a theory; the clouds around my head disprove it.