Jul 2013
I rub my face with my hands like a blind man hugs walls with his fingertips, trying to find a comfortable position to cradle the weight of my skull in my open palm.
I think it’s heavy from exhaustion.
I scratch my head and with an exasperated “****...” I forget why else it could be heavyneverminditwasapathy.
That’s the first time I ever... ****...
…
That’sthefirsttime I’ve ever played with word breaks! Carson would be proud.
I wish my cheeks were made of clay. When I use my forearms as kickstands, godfuckingdamnitIneedtostoplosingmythoughts, (What the **** spell check, you tell me my word break play times are not words but “godfuckingdamnitIneedtostoplosingmythoughts” is a word?) my fists press my flesh like putty, it molds around my knuckles, but when I move them, gravity drags them back down.
Gravity’s a *****.
**** poetry.
I’m tired and I want my **** clay face so I have to put in the effort to make myself see correctly after smushing my cheek fat so far towards my forehead that my eyes look nearly shut.
I should stop doing that.
Oils from my hands and all that ya know? I don’t want any more pockmarks.
Woah spell check, it’s pockmarks?
Huh... pockmarks. I guess that does make more sense than potmarks.
Carson would probably know, she thinks in words. The last time I thought in words was for fifteen minutes a year ago last week while sitting next to Carson at a sloppily painted table with patchwork chairs.
I couldn’t write anything down though, she had my laptop.
My nose itches, but I should probably find something a bit more poetic to add to this stanza. Then again, Carson might think that this whole streamofconsciencething was cool, not my style, out there for me. So I’ll stick with it. Carson gets so proud when I start branching out.
Yayyyyyy.... branching out... I’m thinking “**** this apathy,” but I don’t care enough to do anything about it.
Not at 2:03 AM in one of the four lounge rooms on the third floor of West Fairchild, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL. I should probably change the title now...
****.
I need to stop coughing. I need to get this phlegm thing figured out. I can feel the oils I’m leaving on my face...
It’s like a moist towelette just lifted away from my cheek, like a feather.
I don’t think Carson likes feathers. They seem too... ****... They seem too....
Ethereal! Yeah, ethereal. Ethereal sounds too scholarly.
It’s not worth the effort to think of something else.
Yeah, I’m not tired, it’s the apathy.
By morning it will just be exhaustion, I care too much about their...
This girl doesn’t eat, and she hates herself, so I play lifeguard and keep an eye on her as the day goes by, and I feel stupid for choosing to not respond to her text messages, and then for lying about not seeing them, but I’m too tired to care more.
Yeah, that’s it.
I’m too tired to care.
That’s not apathy right?
I think it’s heavy from exhaustion.
I scratch my head and with an exasperated “****...” I forget why else it could be heavyneverminditwasapathy.
That’s the first time I ever... ****...
…
That’sthefirsttime I’ve ever played with word breaks! Carson would be proud.
I wish my cheeks were made of clay. When I use my forearms as kickstands, godfuckingdamnitIneedtostoplosingmythoughts, (What the **** spell check, you tell me my word break play times are not words but “godfuckingdamnitIneedtostoplosingmythoughts” is a word?) my fists press my flesh like putty, it molds around my knuckles, but when I move them, gravity drags them back down.
Gravity’s a *****.
**** poetry.
I’m tired and I want my **** clay face so I have to put in the effort to make myself see correctly after smushing my cheek fat so far towards my forehead that my eyes look nearly shut.
I should stop doing that.
Oils from my hands and all that ya know? I don’t want any more pockmarks.
Woah spell check, it’s pockmarks?
Huh... pockmarks. I guess that does make more sense than potmarks.
Carson would probably know, she thinks in words. The last time I thought in words was for fifteen minutes a year ago last week while sitting next to Carson at a sloppily painted table with patchwork chairs.
I couldn’t write anything down though, she had my laptop.
My nose itches, but I should probably find something a bit more poetic to add to this stanza. Then again, Carson might think that this whole streamofconsciencething was cool, not my style, out there for me. So I’ll stick with it. Carson gets so proud when I start branching out.
Yayyyyyy.... branching out... I’m thinking “**** this apathy,” but I don’t care enough to do anything about it.
Not at 2:03 AM in one of the four lounge rooms on the third floor of West Fairchild, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL. I should probably change the title now...
****.
I need to stop coughing. I need to get this phlegm thing figured out. I can feel the oils I’m leaving on my face...
It’s like a moist towelette just lifted away from my cheek, like a feather.
I don’t think Carson likes feathers. They seem too... ****... They seem too....
Ethereal! Yeah, ethereal. Ethereal sounds too scholarly.
It’s not worth the effort to think of something else.
Yeah, I’m not tired, it’s the apathy.
By morning it will just be exhaustion, I care too much about their...
This girl doesn’t eat, and she hates herself, so I play lifeguard and keep an eye on her as the day goes by, and I feel stupid for choosing to not respond to her text messages, and then for lying about not seeing them, but I’m too tired to care more.
Yeah, that’s it.
I’m too tired to care.
That’s not apathy right?
