I came here without question to find a headshot I could send Kevin Johnson for god knows what kind of postcard will be created for Steel Magnolias. I sifted and sifted through pages of my posts and wonder why I ever stopped writing. I'll watch people and think, "God I should write about this." I need a computer dammit. And a bed. My god, do I ever need a bed.
Page after page after page of Craigslist housing ads and I think / hope / wish someone will come to my rescue and let me even set foot in a house I could put a new bed in.
The weather is making my thirteen rings fall off, and new Neon Trees songs come on the radio and I think how this time last year the wind was in my face and I was singing about a decade I was never a part of.
In actually vocalizing my daily morning routine of waking up and and counting to the number 123 I realized that this could be yet another mild[?] sign of OCD. If I get lost, or fall asleep, or skip ahead I have to start over until I count high enough in my head, "One hundred nineteen, one hundred twenty, one two one, one two two, ONE TWO THREE." I didn't ever think it was weird until I explained it to someone. I don't remember when it started. A few years ago? I was still living with my parents. 64 was another number I would count two but that one's not appropriate to discuss. I don't think it's a full blown, something I should worry about kind of thing. But odd numbers are mine. I need to have a center in a group of numbers. I watch the clock until 12:34 hits. I'm doing it at this very second, as I type and breathe. It could just be because I'm such a visual person, but that doesn't explain the morning count. Morning after morning after morning. It makes me get out of bed late. I can't help it. I'll just sit there sometimes.
What is this on the TV? Swamp People? They cray-cray.
I've been to two sex shops in town and haven't been carded. Sex shops, tattoo parlors, cigarette buying... I bet ya'll I could buy you a draaank. I miss my music. I miss my music. Maybe I'll get that well dressed new guy at work to join the band I still haven't started, and my voice will echo and people will say, "Listen to how heavy her heart is. I can hear it on her tongue, and in her throat, and in her lungs, and deep deep in her stomach." And I will scream and whisper, and tell the world how much I feel. I will set hairspray on fire on top of a bar, and stick my body out the window of a car, and bring men and women home to my new, bedless, invisible blow-up doll filled home and I will laugh and laugh and wake up on a couch again. Or wont.
This is it, is it, is it, is it.
I won't stop once I've started. I've just got to figure out how to do that first.
