OK. I havent’t been doing this lately and I guess I’m sorry? I don’t know. Sorry isn’t really the word for it. Confused? No, that sounds too much like a whiny high school solipsist making excuses. Kind of like you sound like a biriung old man making up things to say because you want people to know you know words, which is ironic because obviously no one is ever going to see these particular words, but then I guess maybe you’re just practicing for when you *are* typing words that people will see, so that, you know, you’ll be all like *in shape* and stuff, because obviously your body’s not, so, you got to wow them with something, right? Whatever you’ve got left, which ain’t much, and you didn’t start out with much, so yeah. So much dumb stuff goes through my mind all at once. It’s probably not really all at once. Some of it’s probably just next to each other, you know, really quickly shifting back and forth from one thing to another. Or maybe it is all at once. I don’t really know how the brain works or what thoughts are. I’d kind of like to get faster at typing. I Think I Would have to kind of start over and learn to use my pinkies more though. Why do I want to? Whatever. The littles are out in the tent. The tent has parts that are starting to wear out already. It wasn’t exactly a cheap tent. That bothers me more than it seems like it should. Not because of the expense or anything like that, but because of the imperfection, the vulnerability. The world is an imperfect place and screws fall out all the time, but I hate that and I have a hard time accepting that. Terabithia drinks loudly from the I am going to start doing this again because I didn’t make my appointment with my so-called new therapist. Really, what’s the point of making an appointment with someone for three sessions? I should probably get set up with someone though, for real. To work on: - procrastination - my relationship with money - being able to trust people so I might not have to carry on being so fucking lonely But yeah. So yeah. So but anyway, yeah. Megan got a paintbrush from her mom but her mom had fucked it up by using it with glitter glue. Megan was like why would she do that; this is a traditional something something kind of brush, and I’m like yeah well. Megan said she got some kind of official email through that email thing they used for a while that said she wasn’t allowed to send letters or anything anymore. That seems weird. Unlikely, even. It’s also weird how I never hear anything at all from the prison social worker(s) or anyone at all about any of it. Maybe the presumption is I wouldn’t want to? I kind of don’t want to, except when it makes Megan sad. Or the others--maybe the others will start to care in an overt way in the next few years? I don’t know. I guess I’ll look into it? I don’t really want to though, but whatever. Just to have some kind of answer I guess would be good. I feel like this is kind of ASMR for Megan--I mean, me typing like this on this clicky WASD keyboard that I decided not to send back because of my relationship with money that I need to work on. But I do like typing on it, and I do imagine her enjoying the sound. I like the sound. Jackie Ray used to like the sound. Megan’s lying on my bed for a while because she was sad about some stuff. Partly because of some stupid jackass little bitch ass boy. Why are there so many of those? Why can’t they fucking grow up and have some fucking dignity and decency and not act like little bitches? Little butt hurt egotistical tantrum throwing piece of shit bitches? What the fuck is wrong with boys? I mean who knows, maybe Megan’s doing something wrong too. But still. Boys should know how to just shut the fuck up and leave someone alone and move the fuck on. Nobody cares, you gangly little unimportant suburban boring ass nobody fucking cares if you’re bisexual or not or if you’re crying about your stupid relationship, literally no. one. fucking. cares. It’s stupid. You’re stupid. Fuck off. I kind of used to be like that. But not that bad, though. At least I knew when to go off and sulk by myself. Jesus.