why is it so hard to write?
maybe the chairs here at the library are the wrong size with the table. maybe i'm simply tired. i wasn't all that jazzed about the "brown bag discussion about using sex ed against rape culture" when I first got there, but I apparently made some useful points. One of which, actually, is something I need to write more about at some point other than now*, and is that you can manage a whole lot more change in people if you aren't labeling them, because the labeling makes it so that they will not accept that something they did is a problem because they aren't $label. See also, "that thing you said is racist." "no, it can't be racist - I'm a good person!"
But anyway.
It's somehow been a whole two weeks in less than 12 hrs. I spent a whole lot of that time not alone, which was a good thing, but there's also the need to figure out how to deal with almost everything bringing regrets. I'm sitting here at the library and I see Mamma Mia in the videos. I think oh, I could go watch that with mom, and then I think of the dvds i had in the car that we never did watch. I'm wearing the hair clip, the cheap plastic hairclip, that I asked to have back. I doubt they put a different one in. Hell, the clothes I gave them for her were synthetic; I suppose that doesn't matter. Last night at the apartment I found a set of letters and cards she had kept. one more thing I didn't think of in time, that maybe I could have brought to her even if I never got her to come back to the apartment.
I have emails to send to the college, to the high school, to the paper.
I have to starrt calling all these people who maybe I can actually reach. Numbers and numbers and numbers and they don't have area codes and most of them are probably defunct. But I have to try.
I guess I have an hour of "reasonable hour" left.
But I'm at the library.
* now it will be taken to be related to the bostonish firestorm, and it is, in that that is how my thoughts have gone there, but it isn't, in that it's not to do with any of the main characters
But anyway.
It's somehow been a whole two weeks in less than 12 hrs. I spent a whole lot of that time not alone, which was a good thing, but there's also the need to figure out how to deal with almost everything bringing regrets. I'm sitting here at the library and I see Mamma Mia in the videos. I think oh, I could go watch that with mom, and then I think of the dvds i had in the car that we never did watch. I'm wearing the hair clip, the cheap plastic hairclip, that I asked to have back. I doubt they put a different one in. Hell, the clothes I gave them for her were synthetic; I suppose that doesn't matter. Last night at the apartment I found a set of letters and cards she had kept. one more thing I didn't think of in time, that maybe I could have brought to her even if I never got her to come back to the apartment.
I have emails to send to the college, to the high school, to the paper.
I have to starrt calling all these people who maybe I can actually reach. Numbers and numbers and numbers and they don't have area codes and most of them are probably defunct. But I have to try.
I guess I have an hour of "reasonable hour" left.
But I'm at the library.
* now it will be taken to be related to the bostonish firestorm, and it is, in that that is how my thoughts have gone there, but it isn't, in that it's not to do with any of the main characters