move into the sick room there’s always a hidden sickness to a room everything that’s happened there that is sopping with loss grief regret guilt pathos the inevitable decay of innocence a vintage teddy bear staring out unblinking at the emptiness and the silence as shadows traverse the walls over and over again, regular as missed busses what? i don’t know ok, what now. here we go with this big giant waste of time one more time. I guess it’s not much worse than any of the bazillion other ways to waste time. like looking at pictures. posting pictures. liking pictures. commenting on pictures. shopping “What would happen if you did something *else* besides buying a computer (or anything else like that) in response to the swarming up of emptiness and loneliness and mundanity and meaninglessness?” Well, for one thing, I’d have a lot more money to spend on other stuff or save. Would I save it? Or would I just-- You know, I can actually stimulate myself to spend *more* money just by thinking about buying a computer and then deciding not to. It’s like, OH! Narrow escape there; good job ol’ sport! Welp, since I just saved twelve hundred dollars by not buying that computer, I might as well go have a hamburger! After all, what’s $8 compared to $1200!? Why, it’s nothing. THat lunch may as well be free! (gobbles value basket with greasy fingers, no closer to the silence than before) Meanwhile those fox-worn granite ledges on the slope below the CUSTER sign sit there in the sun. My ears ring in entangled sympathy from a distance. The sweet thin air whistles thru my brain. Saying, come back, come out here, walk briskly up the trail, scramble down the other side, and sit with us. Only there is no us; that’s why it works. It’s just stellar neutrality, in Earthen dress. My pellet gun doesn’t work anymore. I assume my .22 still works, but I haven’t taken it out of the bag since bringing it back from SD what, five years ago now? I should at least clean it. But when am I ever gonna shoot it? I’m too shy to ask about those gun ranges. Like oh they’re not gonna let me in, WHAT? A .22? WHERE’S YOUR DEER RIFLE SON? WHERE’S YOUR ASSAULT RIFLE? HERE READ THIS MAGAZINE AND BUY A WHOLE BUNCH OF LASER SCOPES AND GRENADES AND CONSPIRACY THEORIES THEN MAYBE Yeah I doubt it’s really like that, but I don’t know because I haven’t asked anyone because I’m afraid of being judged by fat overalls-wearing chicken-eating good old boys who have just so much common sense and no need for faggy poetry. Yeah that’s on me, honestly, that I think that is my own fault. But anyway. <<BLING!>> the chime of a Hangouts message goes off and my attention, she is divided like the whites from the yolk. Half of it gets poured into this bowl of words; the other half gets dumped into a separate bowl, to be whisked and whipped and sugared and spun until it turns into something fluffy and shiny and imminently perishable oh for god’s sake give me a break. So like basically I’m walking down a street wearing old boots. It’s dusty and it hasn’t rained for a couple of weeks. The sun is hot, so hot it feels like it’s pressing down on my shoulders like a too-insistent massage. The little bits of quartz in the sidewalk’s concrete wink at me like fickle starlets. Have you ever noticed I say “like” a lot? What am I a god damned teenager. Basically yes. It’s based off of being a teenager. They built a building and it was based off of its foundation, so the whole thing fell over into the mud that was actually an ANCIENT BURYAL GROUND and then the rotting corpses came up and the click clacking skulls eated everybody brains up. yum yum god help me i don’t know why i’m still sitting here doing this. the thing where it clicks over into something profound just hasn’t been working for a while now. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid to type “about” anything important. I vaguely feel the submarine pressure bulge up against my swimming belly, but then I let myself float away on that upward eddy, that miniature tsunami, instead of diving in. WHy? because i don’t want to be sitting here wasting my life typing dumb teenage girl diary entries, that’s why. Nobody cares. I don’t even care. I’m boring myself. I’m boring a hole right through myself, and I don’t even care. Gimme a fry. Gimme a shake. Gimme a reason to exist. Why do we even have linking verbs or verbs of existence? There is no existence. It’s all a sham. Maybe that’s why our paltry collection of verbs for it is so lazy, so half-assed. Am is are were was whatever, fuck that, those words don’t mean anything. They’re ciphers. They’re empty variables. And don’t even get me started on helping verbs. Ha! No one actually *helps* anyone else, give me a fucking break!