You killed the car, Cameron.
So I'm sitting here eating my mango ice cream, which has turned to soft-serve in our less-than-freezing freezer (old-world charm no longer suffices and so we must search for lodging less leaky), and I suddenly remember the moment a few nights ago when I realized that Reconstruction Site was giving me goosebumps. I half-wonder if that moment has anything more than a chronological relationship with the moment, a mile or so down the road, in which I wrecked my car beyond hope of repair. Honestly the one felt a lot more significant before the other occurred, and I don't really think they have a lot to do with each other. Red means stop, kids.
Uuuuuugh. This took about 25 minutes, and remains entirely unsatisfactory. I am reminded of why I stopped writing here, and, additionally, of why I never finish a fucking thing. I am going to go drink tea. And, theoretically, write songs, god help me.
Uuuuuugh. This took about 25 minutes, and remains entirely unsatisfactory. I am reminded of why I stopped writing here, and, additionally, of why I never finish a fucking thing. I am going to go drink tea. And, theoretically, write songs, god help me.