i can't help it if i'm still in love with you.

(older men)

i'm going to start writing every day. Dave Kelly said I should try it. Sitting down at the same time for an hour, and if nothing is there, then so be it. But if there is something, write it down. I already know i'm fooling myself. but perhaps, i can at least try.
i wish i had a typewriter that worked. my grandparents old one ran out of ink, and i don't know how to find ribbon that fits.
Dave had a mechanical typewriter, and they removed it from his office for an electronic one, then for a computer. He was pissed.
My nana used the typewriter, i think when her hands got too shaky to write anymore- or maybe she just liked the way it felt, maybe it reminded her of younger times. they ended up getting a computer too, I'm not sure how much they used it. It was in the little room next to the coat rack where my grandfathers old hat still hung when we went to clean out their house.

21st century woman

my tongue is numb from smoking two packs of cigarettes a day while writing.
i just spelled tongue wrong again tim.

five more days.
it's so close, but with so much more to do, it doesn't seem like it.
right now i'm writing this instead of writing a paper.

i heard a girl have an orgasm upstairs yesterday.
either she was an exquisite actress, or the ceilings are thinner than they should be.

what just happened.

Sitting at my desk writing and i hear someone going through the bottles in the hallway.
I immediately think it's some person trying to collect the bottles for money.
I wonder what's going on and look out the window, to see a man standing at my window. But i can only see his gloves because my window is right at the doorway.
He just stands there and I think he sees me because he doesn't move.
then he walks around and stands in front of my other window that leads onto the porch.
so i think he's trying to see me inside.

i go sit in my bathroom for a few minutes because there are no windows, meanwhile having a panic attack.
get courage to talk to fiona on the computer.

spondullicks: oh god. i think someone was trying to take the bottles int he hallway
spondullicks: that was so scary
spondullicks: and i was wondering what was going on
spondullicks: and looked out the window
spondullicks: and then he saw me
spondullicks: and then walked around the porch to see if he could see me in the house
spondullicks: holy fuck
spondullicks: i dont care if he takes them but jesus.
spondullicks: that freaked the fuck out of me
spondullicks: maybe i should leave a note.
spondullicks: how did he know the bottles were in here?
spondullicks: maybe it was someone from the landlord....ugh.

AND THE PUNCHLINE!

spondullicks: oh god. i think it was.

look outside again.
and guess what?

it's the guy that does the work for the house.
he was getting a RAKE from the cabinet in the hallway- which explains the bottle noises.
and he probably stood on the porch looking around because it is so messy with other bottles and a turned over ashtray.

THIS is what imagination can do in a five minute period.

I'm so awake now after that incident.

i'm also an idiot, obviously.

i feel sick.
in the ihavenoideawhati'mdoing way.
I just had a painful meeting with my fiction professor.
Not because of her, but because i feel incapable of interaction.
i had to stop myself from crying in her office. i just don't like
when people can see vulnerability and when i can't help but show it.

holy mess.