1.2.02. 10.34am.
the weather isn't even warm.
And I sit listening to the pitter patter of the rain in my ears and it makes me miss, miss you though you do not exist outside the space between my ears where the rain pitter patters. There is a longing that comes with the music that I compulsively plug in, and I hit the anti-shock button every time I sit down but that doesn't stop the tremors. Pitter patter noise and chatter in my ears and the ricky-ticky of the fan which is on not because it is hot here but because the air is uncomfortable. The butter melts out of habit which is why I'm here too; when I wasn't looking I became a morning person (who sleeps all day long when given the chance). Who knows if I'll make it to twenty-one sentences, it was just an exercise anyway, and this machine habitually puts capital letters on my eyes even when I don't type them, just think of sentences for me please. Some habits are good. Like singing and dancing, and you put your foot on my foot and I kiss you goodnight... Things started getting better when I started writing about you every day; now instead of keys on the keyboard I hit the keys of a piano every day, and it feels good to sing even when the songs are often the same. I listen to music that makes me nostalgic, and makes me whistful, and makes me remember all the reasons to hate you, and I don't want to hate you, but boy do you deserve it sometimes. It's new year's eve, and no one will stay in my bed (not even me) and no one's having fun (even though we all had a good time, didn't we?). I want to go back to school and never, never leave, not ever, let's just all get one big home together and never grow up with the wendy-bird to take care of us. Eight more ticker-tape tippy-taps on the keyboard in a meaningless motive: enter click control s v alt f4 is now a pattern my fingers know by heart better than the fantasy three which once poured out of my hands so fluidly. The music in my head goes all the time (can't shut it off, me or her) and I wish I knew the words to sing along (sometimes). If I sat down and tried, I could probably play the fantasy anyway; I haven't tried. Like a baby with a bread-crumb I erase the markers I left along the way, though no one least of all me knows where I'm going, my hands just pitter patter on the keys like the rain, like the fan, like the music which won't turn off. I started to talk about the missing chunk - where did that go? (It's missing, right.) So maybe I'm lost, and maybe I won't make it all the way to twenty-one, and Lyn can go fuck herself, and so can my self-imposed rules; this was all for my benefit anyway, you won't know the difference.
(And that's eighteen. I could stop there, but a self-imposed rule sometimes starts imposing itself, and I am compelled to reach the end. Sorry for the inconvenience...)