Everyone is a fucking Napoleon
So much has been going on... I feel my fingers itching for a pen, a pencil, a notebook, a napkin somethinganythingdammit. But no, it is not time yet. One of these days I am going to start writing again and I'm not going to stop for a very long time. It feels as though it's been years, and perhaps it has, all I know is that it has been a very long time. And I finished a book that chronicles the year of a high school freshman and somehow it managed to tug me back to third street and open 5ths and high school bathroom stall conversations and Adrien Geurtsen or was it Geurtson and wanting to kick Grant Furtado in the balls with all my might for being such a dick.
I am mired in the marrow of my, "Well aint that funny?" bone. Where do I put all these letters that I wrote to myself but cannot address?
I am mired in the marrow of my, "Well aint that funny?" bone. Where do I put all these letters that I wrote to myself but cannot address?