zip

At Mom's. On Dad's new computer-it's so goddamn pretty I feel like shit for using it to write this damn thing.

Finally got my stupid oil change. I took nine effing baths yesterday. Nine. Until around 8:30 or so when I had enough of the anxiety, took a chip of Valium and proceeded to write until 1am, which was amazing. That also meant that my dumbass slept until 10:30, which was annoying, but I got up and made breakfast and did dishes and went to the store. Saw John there, one of the old interpreters from work, with his partner. We bumped elbows and he showed me pictures of the three dogs they had adopted-Jesse, Joey, and...well, we won’t go there, will we?

Decided I couldn't take another day of taking baths and reading the same three books in rotation, so I took a bath and packed up some stuff and came over here, as it's been a minute since I visited. Jack's been pissing on things outside for the past 45 minutes, it's about to rain, I have a headache. Goddamn moonshine.

I don't know why I'm still writing this goddamn story anymore but if I had any sense I'd finish it and publish it so I could get the fuck out of this state for awhile. Of course, there's no point in having adventures if you don't have someone to have adventures with. Yesterday I was trying to do anything but think about things and making flatbread pizza from Walmart (surprisingly yummy) and thoughtcatalog popped up on my phone, as it does once a day with an article it thinks I should read. The title of this one was 'You Will End Up Where You Are Supposed To Be' or something to that effect, and the timing was pretty weird because at that moment I had no idea where I was going or what might happen to me and as a person who doesn't like surprises, it's not a very comfortable state of mind.

I still need printer ink, vacuum filters, babybels.

I just need for this to make sense. I don’t know if I like getting there or being there (there being a metaphor for wherever I’m supposed to/meant to be) but I do know that when I get to places I want to go, I am already planning on where I’m going next.

Remember those little boxes of tiny fireworks? Snappers or poppers? Your parents would give some to you at 4th of July or New Years because unless you were a total fucking moron it’d be the one firework you couldn’t maim yourself with. They’d be a little twistball and you’d throw them hard at the ground and they’d SNAP in the most satisfying way and if your friends/relatives were dicks they’d always throw them at your feet and make you dance. I constantly feel as if some sadistic six year old is always throwing those things at my heels and I can never stop running and look around me.

snap. snap. snap. snap.

what next? are we there yet? when we get there, where are we going next? when where what how

now

now

NOW.

I’ve been running so long, my feet run without me. You’d want to say fuck the journey too, if it meant you could just stop and

sit down.

-Rae