Stream of consciousness bullshit - Faulkner, this is not
Two more weeks of taking it easy and getting high on laying low and laying out and being hot and staying out of school and working the salt mines by filling the salt shakers and shaking a leg and taking a break. Mosquito bites only happen when you hang out on top of jungle gyms at midnight on a humid Wednesday because there's nothing else to do and so you talk about the future with hope and gaiety because you're young and naive, but not as much as you were the last time you hung out on that jungle gym. There's nothing left to say, so you just swing some more. Swing and struggle to breathe through the duct-taped air, and wonder if the corkscrew-to-foot feeling in your stomach is because you haven't slept for twenty-six hours or if it's something else. It's OK that no one's talking. You prefer comfortable silences anyway.
Right when you can sort of see the light, you get scared and start backpedaling. The grass isn't greener, it's a mirage, it's actually cold and grey, full of concrete and reality and homeless people. It's better when there's grass.
Mmm cranberry juice.
The worst feeling in the world is when neither of you are talking because you're too stubborn and you think he's hiding something, but calling him on it would turn you into a typical psycho girl and effectively ruin whatever the hell you're still trying to salvage, and face it, you're probably hiding way more shit in the first place, and you just sit online like an idiot hoping for the little popping sound but it's just not worth it, so go to bed already, and goddammit, what's so bad about Hillary Clinton, anyway?