She holds her head back when she screams....
Happy three day late birthday, Lana Celine Morris.
Happy two day late birrhday, Jacqueline Suzanne Clark Powell Plemmons aka The best mother ever. And Neville Longbottom.
Happy one day late birthday, Harry Potter and JK Rowling.
EVERYTHING BEYOND THIS POINT IS WINING. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Nicholas Shea Willis is in Orlando, TWO HOURS away from me, as opposed from the usual SIX AND A HALF. I'd be there if I had a ride. Unfortunately, my mother has to work on Mondays.
I wanna be with sex in a tent. I wanna be at Wal-Mart at four o'clock in the morning. I wanna be back in that damned repo car with no interior lights...except that I think it has lights now. Or in that effing white Blazer with a LOT of interior lights but no air conditioning. Or in that little red bug that's great as long as you're riding in the FRONT seat. Or something.
I wanna loiter some more at the Jacksonville Public Library. I wanna take a lot of time going absolutely nowhere and end up at Albertson's, which is going out of business, and hug in the middle of the three cent makeup isle and drive for no reason listening to "Meet Virginia" because that's your song.
I want the writing lab with trapezoid tables and our little corner and Barbi-maker and Pop-and-Drop and Mrs. Parker's fiftieth birthday and eating discretely and Mrs. Wetzel-Reiss and that body story and Mr. Price's class and Mr. Keisling's class ("Key-sling, get it?!") and Jessica Klein and camping and livejournal still accessible and expecting too much because now we don't expect anything at all as there is nothing left to expect.
I want to read Harry Potter until my eyes fall out and not even glance at those other four books that I should be reading right now but am, instead, typing on the internet and eating barbeque potato chips because I am homesick, restless, and wanting something I can't have.
Caitlin's right. Nostalgia sucks.
This summer has gone too fast.
...I don't really wanna be the queen.
Happy two day late birrhday, Jacqueline Suzanne Clark Powell Plemmons aka The best mother ever. And Neville Longbottom.
Happy one day late birthday, Harry Potter and JK Rowling.
EVERYTHING BEYOND THIS POINT IS WINING. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Nicholas Shea Willis is in Orlando, TWO HOURS away from me, as opposed from the usual SIX AND A HALF. I'd be there if I had a ride. Unfortunately, my mother has to work on Mondays.
I wanna be with sex in a tent. I wanna be at Wal-Mart at four o'clock in the morning. I wanna be back in that damned repo car with no interior lights...except that I think it has lights now. Or in that effing white Blazer with a LOT of interior lights but no air conditioning. Or in that little red bug that's great as long as you're riding in the FRONT seat. Or something.
I wanna loiter some more at the Jacksonville Public Library. I wanna take a lot of time going absolutely nowhere and end up at Albertson's, which is going out of business, and hug in the middle of the three cent makeup isle and drive for no reason listening to "Meet Virginia" because that's your song.
I want the writing lab with trapezoid tables and our little corner and Barbi-maker and Pop-and-Drop and Mrs. Parker's fiftieth birthday and eating discretely and Mrs. Wetzel-Reiss and that body story and Mr. Price's class and Mr. Keisling's class ("Key-sling, get it?!") and Jessica Klein and camping and livejournal still accessible and expecting too much because now we don't expect anything at all as there is nothing left to expect.
I want to read Harry Potter until my eyes fall out and not even glance at those other four books that I should be reading right now but am, instead, typing on the internet and eating barbeque potato chips because I am homesick, restless, and wanting something I can't have.
Caitlin's right. Nostalgia sucks.
This summer has gone too fast.
...I don't really wanna be the queen.