4ft10 inches of mischief and pure intentions. 18, racially ambiguous, apple cider enthusiast. basically, I'm everything I've ever feared of. but it's me and it works.
My guidance counselor’s “random” poses in a photobooth.
And no, these are not the same image.
Instead of constantly thinking and calculating, I went for a walk.
Instead of cold seats and burnt coffee, the edge of a bayou.
Instead of walking back to the coffee house, she pooped off the ledge.
Instead of self-constructed walls, very open windows and doors.
Instead of dry clothes, scattered rain and even more scattered ideas.
Instead of a crowd, maybe a few.
Instead of alone, your room and you.
Instead of alone, good friends and bad diners.
Instead of alone, sea salt and sea aches.
Instead of my bed, a lick of the wind.
Instead of constantly thinking and calculating, I went for a walk.
it’s 4am and those 3 cups of coffee have not only kept me buzzing and tumbling around these sheets for the last 7 hours, but they have also percolated and clogged my brain with ideas and pictures of my life that I’m about to start and it’s all just nuts. sacks and sacks of nuts.
what to do, what to do.
my head is kind of fizzling and these words and thoughts and expressions are becoming more and more similar to dust because there are just so many of them that don’t really mean anything, but they continue to float around and blanket the untouched and overused parts of myself and the things that I really like. I have to go to work in 10 hours and that’s just
so upsetting.
having two jobs is upsetting.
exhaustion is upsetting.
wanting to be your friend is
upsetting.
please destroy me.
Of all the days I could have slept in after stumbling into bed around 1, I wake up in a bumbling heap of hair knots at exactly 6:15a forgetting that it is holding tank week.
and in spite of my peers who point their noses in the air at late arrivals,
I’m going to grind some coffee beans, eat an entire cantaloupe, and bob around to
Andre 3000. It’s a delicious day, so I’m seizin’ it by the nuts. ~*~*~gET A liFE.
or a job. ~*~*~
A weekend of stolen cars, Danny Piechoki, sea olives, speeding tickets, art, good music, and your morning breath.
Life.
Kicked in the fucking huevos. Swollen feet and expired smiles. Serving is the most excruciating, yet rewarding, occupation in the history of ever.
EVEEEEERRRRR
JUST GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONNNEEYYYY
Guys, guess who gets to start their struggling creative writing/journalist career by waitress-ing for disgustingly wealthy Republican families?
This guy.
I keep accidentally sleeping through school and ending up feeling extremely guilty about it.
Always always always tired.
