(no subject)
In a week, I'll be twenty-two years old, and I've already gotten married twice. Okay, technically three. I'm a retired hooker, a goddamn business owner, a husband and I guess I'm kind of a father. Okay, more than kind of.
There's fingerpaint under my nails, and this afternoon I found a goddamn pink hair tie around my wrist that I'd forgotten I put there while helping the girls get dressed seven hours earlier. I can't really say anymore that I don't know how the fuck this happened to me. I chose this life, and no matter what people might think, at twenty-two I'm not too fucking young to know it's right.
This morning, I hung Brian's sketches up on the walls of the Winchester, 'cause I figure that's where they belong. Later, if he doesn't find me first, I'll hunt down Sirius, because these days I start getting nervous if I don't at least see him on a regular basis. I can't handle letting whole weeks go by without it, like before. Not after all the shit that's happened.
I'm twenty-two in eight days, and I've felt old for a long time, whether I act it or not. Right now, sitting on a rock down by the water and smoking a cigarette, I'm soaking up a few minutes of quiet, without loud toddlers and a diner to run and a radio station to check on or all the other shit I've somehow decided is my responsibility, when just a handful of years ago I fucking ran from anything that felt like growing up.
In a few minutes, I'll get up and go back to all of it, but right now, all that matters is this cigarette and the waves stretching out as far as I can see.
[[Timed to evening, sundown or after. All manner of tags welcome.]]
There's fingerpaint under my nails, and this afternoon I found a goddamn pink hair tie around my wrist that I'd forgotten I put there while helping the girls get dressed seven hours earlier. I can't really say anymore that I don't know how the fuck this happened to me. I chose this life, and no matter what people might think, at twenty-two I'm not too fucking young to know it's right.
This morning, I hung Brian's sketches up on the walls of the Winchester, 'cause I figure that's where they belong. Later, if he doesn't find me first, I'll hunt down Sirius, because these days I start getting nervous if I don't at least see him on a regular basis. I can't handle letting whole weeks go by without it, like before. Not after all the shit that's happened.
I'm twenty-two in eight days, and I've felt old for a long time, whether I act it or not. Right now, sitting on a rock down by the water and smoking a cigarette, I'm soaking up a few minutes of quiet, without loud toddlers and a diner to run and a radio station to check on or all the other shit I've somehow decided is my responsibility, when just a handful of years ago I fucking ran from anything that felt like growing up.
In a few minutes, I'll get up and go back to all of it, but right now, all that matters is this cigarette and the waves stretching out as far as I can see.
[[Timed to evening, sundown or after. All manner of tags welcome.]]