like the paint

[stungunnmilly]

This is me in the library not doing my work and thinking very seriously about not going to class.

Isn't he oh so very clever.
Monday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
Tuesday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
Wednesday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
Thursday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
Friday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
Saturday: I'm gay. I'm leaving.
Monday: I'm not gay. I'm not going away.
He's back and glowing with self-satisfaction. He's got a loud mouth, an engorged ego, and he's as thick as I think he is if he thinks no one listens, or that a single person with average intelligence was fooled.
And he does.
And they were.
He's a dick. He's getting exactly what he wants and makes sure everyone knows it at least once a day. It only matters to him that we read it, even if we read it because it disgusts us.
He's drama incarnate.

I need to write something for bookmaking.
I need to figure out what the hell I'm doing.
I need to pee.
I need a week of sunshine and wet paint.
I need this to work out.
I think it will.

I had an instant of an epiphany the other day that disappeared when I tried to articulate it. It left me flustered and tied in knots and strangely comforted. It's still there; I just don't know what the hell it is. Kara must have thought I went crazy. I did.

I have your bat on a chain. I would have a flock, but one will get me by.

This calm is a rare mood. I don't even mind the butterflies.