non-linear regression.

[hethoughtofcars]

at a loft i curled fetal on a carpet remnant, the host's guinea pig nestled against my thigh; a half-smile approaching rose of sharon's. somewhere they were seeing who could keep their straw to the glass longest; i'd already had enough sugar from the rice krispie treats, thank you very much.

no one even noticed i'd nodded off until i sat bolt upright, my alarm a loud suggestion that american flyers was better than breaking away. i soon put that blasphemy to rest, but felt like a preschooler on his nap-mat, cheeks burning from misdeeds yet discovered.

buon giorno, sucka.