My hands hurt ( Read more... )

1) Yesterday was crazy. I wrote a story for a contest, a Western Civ. essay, and an English essay all back to back to back. I sort of amazed myself, since I never used to be able to do that, but I was completely brain dead by the time I was done. Fortunately the English essay was just a rough draft that was going to be peer-edited - because I got ( Read more... )

Sometimes I feel ashamed because I don't have enough to be ashamed about. Pathetic, but true. Or maybe it's really everyone else that's pathetic. But then, I'd be being selfish, selfish enough to set off bombs that haven't even been invented yet. What's better to be, pathetic, or selfish, or ashamed? Pathetic -- pro: You still have the ability to ( Read more... )

I wonder what it would be like to be a bird, to feel all the voices running like currents under your feet every time you alighted on a telephone wire. Seven numbers make a bridge from me to anyone (sometimes ten, sometimes eleven, sometimes five). It's been too long since I've last really had a conversation with someone on a phone. I never use ( Read more... )

Is it my fault that I feel sad for the murderers and thieves and hit-and-runners in the world? I do. I wonder what brought them to do such things. They had to have suffered. A lot. I believe, and I believe very firmly, that nobody is born bad. We are all born into goodness and empathy, small and shining. There's no way to be a bad person without ( Read more... )

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The woman on the television makes me sad. I can see the slight quivering of her irises as she reads the Teleprompter. She begs us for our sympathy and our money (though they are really the same) but I can tell her heart is nowhere in it. She sees right through us, and we, her. Her hair is frizzy, her skin sagging, her shirt out of date. I know she ( Read more... )