every morning she woke up and went downstairs and ate a cup of greek yogurt and wondered if life was ever going to get more interesting than this. you know?
monotony is the enemy. she scratched her fingernails against the surface of everything, pretty much. skin and hair, photographs of the grand canyon, dollar bills, fitted sheets on unfamiliar beds. to feel something she knew she'd never own herself. she was reaching towards something but she didn't know what it was. all of her strings were cut and she had been holding the scissors the whole time.