I've lost the will to write for the sake of writing. This is forced. Partially it has to do with my limited awareness during the day. I'm interacting all the time, but not meaningfully. With the current groups I hang along the edges, I'd predict four people to openly question my whereabouts should I ship out for a few days. The weather's getting nicer. It'd be lovely to run away.
I thought I heard a beautiful analogy today, but I didn't write it down.
Bucci swore I'm meant for art, that I'll be calling her a few years from now and telling her she's always been right. Hopefully it won't take a couple years to find what I'm really after. At the honor society induction, it sucked looking at what everyone was wearing, and remembering of my outfit "hand-me-down," "Goodwill," "hand-me-down," "Goodwill." I think it was the same for my mom. I hate inviting her to things, because then she has to see the other parents. It was tough, always getting dropped off outside McMansions. She called us "second hand roses," in honor to the Streisand song. It's why I don't give a fuck about crimes against property.
It makes me upset when kids don't have lunches to eat.
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