how’s your day going?
*edit: i re-read these today, and they’re not very good. i’m sorry guys, i’ll do better tomorrow*
I found myself walking down a set of familiar paces,
The bad kind.
The kind that means I’m heading down into a strand of depression.
Please, no. I was doing so well.
I think my mother might be right.
When I have a deadline, something that has to be done,
Right then, and no later.
I do fifty other things first, because they’re important.
I’m being passive aggressive toward my schedule.
I don’t have to take this from a list.
So I don’t, then freak, then cram.
My roommate had the guy over again.
Her perfect guy,
The one she told me, is perfect.
Except that there’s nothing physical.
But I’ve seen his slick black shoes by the front door twice.
Sounds like sex isn’t that important anymore.
I carried a shoebox full of tax paperwork.
To sort it all out.
I want adult award points.
I felt like a little girl, I felt like I was forgetting something.
I had little sticky notes I wrote to myself from October about payments.
And I lead a dull life.
A well calculated, paperclipped, boring life.
That fits in neat stacks in green folders with black marker on the outside.
I told a story to my mom.
After I had told it to my dad.
I had gotten it out of system,
I did not want to tell it again,
Even if she egged me on, telling me it was funny,
It would make them laugh.
I went back to see how they were doing without me.
Just fine. Like I knew they would be.
They’re having the problems I knew they would have.
And the new people they add, won’t know who I am.
Or what I did.
Which, in the end, was type and stamp and smile.
She said call if you have time.
I didn’t, so I won’t.
When I could talk,
She was short with me,
It was all up front.
And I tripped over a switch, and got the annoyed noise
Then the silence,
Preceding a blowup,
And I didn’t care,
Because she asked to talk to me.
I still want a slushie
Her boss at work told her she needs to work on not visibly reacting.
And I laughed and laughed.
If she could learn that lesson.
She’d certainly be harder to read,
But still the angry, young, girl who puked her guts out after dinner,
And poured as much hate on the world as she did on herself.