Billie Holiday on vinyl, and an ugly roots sweater (and I assure you its ugly!) that’s not even my own, I find myself back on the balcony at the apartment I seem to have grown mighty fond of.
The air is frigid. Yesterday seemed like spring, but today there’s been snow, and the air is dry and tasteless, winter. Although I still put myself through the freezing finger pain and sit on the balcony with my laptop in my lap typing yet again to no one, yet everyone. The warm computer screen melts the snow that hits it. It’s nice, but probably bad for the computer.
I can’t wait for it to be summer, probably for all the wrong reasons. I just want to be able to go for a walk without having to bundle up, Laziness.
I bought cheese today, yes cheese. No, not ice cream... cheese. So unlike me. But I figured at one on the morning if I felt nibbly I could just cook me up some grilled cheese and call it a night. I do that sometimes, when my parents are asleep. Not in the way your thinking. I don’t grill it on the main floor, where the stove is. I use my cute little hot plate and bring all the shit downstairs and cook away. I wonder if they can smell it while they sleep.
And what if they could? Would they begin to dream of food? Grilled cheese, macaroni and cheese, and whatever else smells like cheese. I guess that’s something I have yet to experience. I’m sure if bacon was cooking and I happened to be sleeping beside the stove, I would be up in an instant with my mouth open “feed me!”
Hm. I wonder if these journals will ever come in handy one day. When I went to College they sure did. We had “journal” assignments where we had to express our feeling and thoughts about the days in class, and the shows we went to see.
I never wrote about class, or shows.
I copy ad pasted all my facebook notes and handed in a big pile that I edited to make look like they were for the class, when really they weren’t.
You see now, the thing is, I can’t be told to write every day. I can’t be told my “writing schedule”. When Im told when and how to write, I feel rebellious and decide not to do it until last minute and pull something phenomenal out of my ass. This, by the way, is what I did.
The teachers couldn’t get over my writing skill and commented on how well I was at keeping things simple and easy to read but I assure you they were not happy about the fact that I didn’t mention a thing about the program or how I felt about it. Other than my one journal about an incident we had during the first month of class.
I got a good mark, the teachers got something different to read, and we were both happy. I’m actually surprised it worked. But these seem to be getting longer than I want. I’m going to try to shorten these entries. 530 words seem to be ridiculous.
