Les Amants

"I thought I called for you," he said.

She smiled, to herself, because he always just says the first half of the sayings.
She smiled, basking in the balance and, for a fleeting moment, realized that maybe that balance is the only thing you can count on.

29

I want to be one of those people who can talk to the sky and think that someone is listening. As much as I'll agree with those of you who do, and believe that you believe, I don't know that I do. Even if I did, I don't know that it would help.

Because for all the talking and looking for signs the facts remain:
There won't be any new pictures.
My hair was a stupid color the last time he saw me, though he said nothing, standard.
I feel like I didn't do enough in time.
I hope he was proud.
I hope we were friends.

The clouds parted for a minute and I want to blame it on something I can't see and don't feel, but instead I'll attribute it to the wind speeds and keep pulling myself back to Earth; steel myself against everyone's shaky voice, and hide my own under blankets of smoke.

Puberty (abandoning all the rules of writing and making sense)

These feel less like growing pains the older we get and more just like pain. 
Why haven't these things been dealt with?  
Why do I still feel these debilitating pangs I felt so frequently when we were younger?
Screaming at the top of my breath because I can't let anyone hear the sound I'd make if I could articulate whatever this is going on inside me. 
The, ridiculous, self loathing; so intricately built and sturdy, indestructible, I fear. 
The worst case scenario scenes playing on a loop while I try to keep whatever life I stitched together with my shaky hands from tearing apart. I don't even know for sure if anyone is threatening it with scissors. 
I let myself feel too safe. 
Too comfortable.
It's terrifying. 
So, we prepare. 
We used to call each other for help with these things. Don't you feel like it's gotten old? Like we're just talking to ourselves, and we've already tried to hard to pull each other out of the mess, the quicksand that's never as bad as we think? Our lives keep happening in different time zones. And maybe this is just life. Maybe this is it. Maybe we'll always need the pep talks. And maybe everything will always be generally more down than up. Is this what it's like to be an adult? To feel like we did in high school, but with bills to pay, and live in boyfriends, and jobs, and no Christmas break, no breaks ever from anything?
I know, just stop. We're better than this.  
We'll get our shit together. 
Let's just blame it on the moon, my sunshine...

Because...

The thing they don't tell you about death is that when it's not happening to you it's not your whole life that flashes before your eyes; it's your whole life, plus your whole future without that person that flashes before you in a moment of crippling worry and regret. It's a terrifying realization of what everyone's life looks like the day after.

It's the piece of birthday cake that will be left over every year. It's the inside jokes your boyfriend didn't get to hear. It's the things your grandma can't reach in the cabinets, and your mother's bated breath when she checks the mail every day. It's the cereal you never want to eat again. It's the pictures we didn't know would be the last. It's the words you can't remember if you said, or if you said them how you meant to. It's the weddings, and the graduations, and the visits home that were too late. It's all the things you never thought you should remember flooding your brain in the last torturous moments before sleep every night. It's the distance. It's the immeasurable distance you can never bridge. It's that there can never be a real good-bye, and you didn't want to say it anyway.

I said a lot of words last week. I said a lot of things that might have helped, that made people stop crying. I said things that I knew I was supposed to say. I forced out some optimism and spirituality buried deep down somewhere, but the truth is I said a lot of things I can't stand by. I feel like a big fake, a liar. Because for all the things I said convincingly I'm not convinced.

I'm heartbroken, and angry, and scared.

I feel like there's a torn seam in whatever fabric that I consist of. I feel a surge of pressure to hold everyone in the arc of my small hands; hold them all close before the flood of mortality washes us all away. I feel like I need to say, do, be more. I feel like I can never be enough. I can't keep them all safe.

Every night I go to sleep replaying the way my mother sounded, and I wake up wondering when the next call will be.

I know it'll all get easier, or vaguer, or buried under the inconsequential things we all revert back to. But the reality is this is not the first, or the last time. This will happen again and again until mercifully I might go before I have to endure another one of these things. That's the hardest thing I guess, knowing that no matter how much I convince myself there's peace, and "it was meant to be" and all the bullshit we hear in the movies, it'll come again. Another phone call, another last minute trip, another week of staring off into darkness hoping ghosts are real and being haunted by their absence.


http://obits.dignitymemorial.com/dignity-memorial/obituary.aspx?n=Cletus-Harris&lc=2241&pid=171465535&mid=6020307

Spiders and Cervical Cancer: Fears of the past hour

The night before last a spider apparently repelled from the ceiling, landed on my face, and then bit me on and around my eyes. So, in addition to looking like I had an allergic reaction to Botox I am terrified that there is perhaps a spider living in my eye, or that laid eggs in my eye.

I keep thinking of that Un Chien Anadalou movie where there are bugs coming out of that guy's hand. I think they're ants. Look it up.

So, I'm probably fine, but every article I looked up told me to call the Poison Control Center. I probably won't because I just want to take a nap after work.

Speaking of poison, apparently that Gardasil vaccine that's supposed to make you not get HPV and/or cancer is killing people and/or paralyzing them, which is super great to know because my sister was going to get her second shot soon.
So basically, I saved her life.

More unsettling is that I already had all of those shots and I'm still alive, but now all unexplained weirdness I feel will be attributed to Gardasil. Or I'll blame it on that time I stole something from "some unnamed store" just for fun. I've been waiting on the universe to get me back for that one.  I don't know what to believe ever on the internet because everyone is so dramatic all the time. So maybe I saved her life. Or maybe it's fine and I'm just perpetuating propaganda. I don't know.
Make your own decisions.

Have a good day,
Love,
 the sleepiest, swollenest girl in the world.

I put my thing down, flip it, and reverse it

Ok y'all!(because I live in Tennessee now)

BLOG MAKEOVER!

We've got jellyfish instead of birds, and hopefully no more sad shit. Maybe a little bit of sad shit now and then just to remind you you're still reading Kailee James' blog, but really, let's move on shall we?

Hopefully with this makeover will come some better words, right? Let's be honest, the last 2 years of sad sack prose have been fun (no, it hasn't) but it felt very right, very writerly. I just wanted to be like my cool college professor. He was so damaged, and drank bourbon, and was fabulous. His voice shook when he read his own work aloud and I never could figure out if it was nerves or like, this intense raw emotion just pouring out of him. I'm going to be dramatic and believe in the latter. I like to remember him that way.

Alas, all my abundance of emotion has been quelled by the pills, which is TOTALLY fine guys, I promise. No one can exist as the big weepy blob of existential madness and longing that I was. And now my hair is pink and I am living happily ever day by day working at my boring, but tolerable job, and being in love, and having really good relationships with my friends and family.
Gross, right? I'm so SANE currently.

So that's really it. I am lacking in a story today. There's probably one frozen inside me somewhere, but I have yet to warm up from this 20 degree day.

Just wanted to say hello.
Let's be honest I just wanted anyone who reads this to remember I exist.

And that I still have things to say.

A Sort of Fairytale

     So one time I wrote this really emotionally driven (surprise) blog after Jake and I had a fight where I metaphorically likened my insecurities to walking a tight rope or jumping off a mountain or something really over used like that and he wrote back this really snotty comment like, "You're not on a mountain asshole you're on a curb. Stop being so dramatic," and I was like "I have all these feelings don't judge me!" and then I cried and he didn't and we stopped fighting probably because he was just hungry and mad that I'm a drama queen and we lived happily ever after, until today. Not like we aren't happy today, like we are still happy but that was only a few months ago, and we're going to live forever (so he says) so we have a lot of life to live.
     Anyway, in writing a Lifetime movie closing scene disguised as an email to Katie I realized something. I AM SO FUCKING DRAMATIC. I'm going to blame it on Disney movies, and Twilight, and that I have a menstrual cycle.
     I have been in a handful of really shitty relationships (shocker, I know, have you read any of this blog?), and I guess my naturally melodramatic personality took my whole life over so that even when this amazing man walked into my life and literally forcibly made me love him I was still like, "This can't be right. I am going to still write sad shit." And that made him upset, because he didn't do anything wrong. He's right.
     My idea about love is so skewed because of, I don't know, everything in the media, and in books, that I didn't realize that maybe we women are all still secretly waiting to be told we are really a princess and not a peasant and that our husband is a beast that is also a prince that will eventually save us from our shit lives if we just prove that we love him enough. PROVE THAT WE LOVE HIM ENOUGH. That's the key. That's what I've been doing. And this is where it got warped. I thought that since I had tried so hard to love my ex-whatevers and had been left that I a.) was doomed b.) was doing something completely wrong and c.) would be alone forever.
     So when Jake and I fought at the beginning of our relationship those old thoughts were still floating around in my mind and I convinced myself that he was just sick of me already. But really he was just sick of me feeling sorry for myself. Because he knows he loves me, and I know he loves me, and Oliver's mad that he loves me because he occasionally has to sleep in between us to remind Jake who was here first, and I didn't realize fully until just now that love is not at all what it looks like in the movies. Where a girl cries because she is so broken and the guy goes all Coldplay and is like, "I'll fix you."
     Love is when someone makes your bed in the morning because they know it makes you less neurotic. Love is when someone cooks a separate pan of scrambled eggs sans chorizo, then rolls his eyes at you about it because he knows you've never even tried chorizo and you just don't like it because it looks like meat paste. Love is when someone constantly badgers you about your addiction and says, "I'd have an intervention, but no one would show up except me," because the addiction is to Coca Cola and no one else cares about my sugar intake. It's when someone always texts you goodnight even if the day was rough, and still kisses you like he means it before you leave. Love is laying in an uncomfortable position all night because you are just so overwhelmed that this amazing man is in your bed, even if he is sleeping on top of all the covers and you're kind of freezing.

In short, love is real. It's not sparkly and glamorous and there's no Adele song playing in the background of every argument or make up or whatever. It's just someone who wants to hang out with you when you had a bad day, or a good day. Who wants you to be better than you are, but in a non-manipulative way.

I am pretty positive I found it guys. At least the kind I needed. And you know what, usually I'd worry. I do worry, but then I just remind myself that I'm on Prozac for a reason.
You know what? That's what love is. Someone who reminds you to take your Prozac. And drink more water.

Author's Note: Jake has never actually called me an asshole. Unless I deserved it.

Every once in a while I have these moments of calm. I am submerged in this deep blue tranquility I feel I can only achieve in sleep. For the last 6 years or so it hasn't come in slumber. It hasn't come often. It comes like the calm after a storm. This utter loss of control. This weight that cannot be lifted. It is most often a calm of resignation to my circumstances. But tonight, it is different.

I feel a smile playing at my lips. Even, here on this porch, where I have spent so many nights with dry salt streams on my cheeks, it feels like...well I can't say that I've ever felt this before. I can't describe it. There are simply no words, which scares me. The usual worries about the validity of this calm are still pushing their way through the Prozac. Screaming their high pitched warnings:
"Don't trust it."
"Don't hope"
"Don't be fooled"

But these days, these voices, these demons (if we're going to be Catholic about it) are held at bay. Because, the calm I feel today started to creep in when I let my gaze wander to those deep blue tranquil eyes. When, after putting up a fight, I stared my dreams square in the face and kissed them in the cold, on this porch, in this chair, where I've cried so many tears for so many who weren't worth them. In these blue eyes I feel safe, I feel calm, I feel a future again. These eyes are not glassy, glossed over like so many influenced by substance or that lacked it. These are not the eyes I've spent year writing about. These are not the eyes I thought I deserved to stare into, but with the new year, came this opportunity, this encapsulation of the dark corners of my heart. The secrets I started to keep even from myself, because they were too precious for even me to ruin.

This might not make sense. Or be the best thing I've written. My fingers are frozen. My lips are chapped. I cannot wrap my mind around all the things that make so much sense, and the things that are only making sense now that they've destroyed me.

I cannot wrap my mind around him. But I've accepted the fact that I must stop trying. I must stop trying and simply give in...

but we all knew I'd do that the first time he held my hand, didn't we?

Why not?

     I haven't blogged in a while. I haven't been creative in  a while. I haven't been able to wreck the internet with my virtual tears about non-consequential shit.
     I think this means things are ok.
     This isn't going to be a story. Or have a lesson. It's just going to be words. And maybe they'll make sense.
     Nashville does not, as I've made it seem, suck. It is beautiful. It is freeing. It is slowly being unravelled and, like the left-over Halloween Tootsie Pops that are surely rotting my teeth away, the best part is in the center. Finally, it feels like I'm in the center of something; surrounded by the most amazing people. I've spent a lot of time treating God like a coach who's constantly sitting me on the bench, but maybe I had to prove myself. Honestly, I think I was trying too hard to play for the wrong team.
     I thought the last year was supposed to be about starting over. Unfortunately, sometimes starting over means making out with your best friend, getting uninvited to a wedding, and then somehow in the mess unearthing these amazing people you couldn't see clearly through the haze. And at the risk of sounding totally cheesy, all of those people...are my angels. That was cheesy. I'd erase it, but then I'd have to re-read it and vomit.
     I don't necessarily know if those old friends are lost. I can't say I'm trying to salvage anything. I am content. I can say that for every mistake, and mistrusting step I made I learned something. Mostly that I'm a sucker for a sweet word. It's because I watch too many movies. I think now though, my eyes are clear, not clouded with the MTV quality drama that exists within the confines of whatever kind of family I'm the black sheep of.
    I think more than anything I am trying to resign to the fact that everything that I used to think was a big deal isn't. And every single drunken girls night, or pajama conversation is a big deal. That is happiness. That is family. That is love. And that is what makes everything ok. That is why I'm here.
     So bottom line, and an update for anyone that still checks this thing: I am living with two of the most amazing people in the world. And I will find a home, but for now I am safe. Oliver is happy and healthy and not a fat dog anymore. I feel fulfilled by everyone I hang out with. I miss my family every day. I answer their phone calls. I am happy most days. And when I'm not it usually only lasts one cigarette. I am over the things I needed to be over. I am ok.

I am ok.

Poem. Thought. Observation.

Poem: Written on my leg in the dark
A love that lasts, not lingers.
That is not simple.
That shakes you.
That doesn't knock you down,
but eases your unsteady feet off the ground

I want that. To be honest, the wanna-be princess inside every human doomed to live a life constantly derailed with estrogen emotions wants that.

Someone to give a shit.

Magic 8

     I think we're constantly searching for answers that don't exist yet. That has to be why there's a Magic 8 Ball online. So at the push of a button we can see some predetermined answer, and if we don't like it, we push again.
     We push too hard sometimes. We push so we don't fall apart. We push the pieces we want to fit into puzzles they weren't meant for. We push through. We push for. We push ourselves around. We are so consumed with the end, the goal, that we lose sight of all the beautiful things quietly residing in the deepest places of our hearts. Wrapped safely in memories of cigarettes, swimming pools, dry heat.
     Some things that are old are dissolving. Some things that are old are going through a metamorphosis we could have predicted had we been paying more attention. And they will grow, they will turn into things more real than we have known. They will be tangible.
     We will be patient.
     We will submerge ourselves, or perhaps test the water with our fingertips. We'll feel the heat on our faces slowly warm the chill in our hearts.
     And it will all be ok.

There's a Reason

This is dedicated to someone, but I don't like to name names on the Internet...



      He slipped his shoes off, leaving his socks on, as he sank back into his chair. Closing his eyes while he sipped on another beer, he tipped his head back to enjoy the last song on side B. He didn’t notice she was watching him, lying backwards in his bed, making a mental note of this accidental smile.
     “That fucking candle went out again,” he said trying to cool the wax before it ruined the wick.
     “What an asshole,” she replied with ambivalence. One less candle wouldn’t make a difference.
The digits on the clock were increasing. The shots, and beer, and cocktails made the time seem irrelevant. The music wasn’t stopping. The laughing grew louder, more uncontrollable, their voices hoarse from conversation. What would have usually been a night spent respectfully annihilating a pack of cigarettes turned into a longing for a life in the 1970’s, holey t-shirts, beaded doorways, and weed.
     “But then the house would smell like weed.”
     “But that’s why we’d get incense.” She prided herself on fine-tuning the details.

      As the sun threatened the open window, the noise grew faint. The musicians sang deeper. Their faces closer as he whispered information in her ear she’d never understand. Their heavy eyelids fighting sleep, fighting tomorrow. She pulled the blanket over their heads; they breathed each other’s air.
     “I’m dead,” she said.
     “You’re not dead,” he mumbled as he lazily tried to revive her.
     “What if I just died every time someone said something I didn’t like?,” She mumbled back, her face glistening with sweat.
     “What if you could decide to just stop breathing?”
      “What if you actually had control over anything?
They turned to face each other, in complete darkness; searching for eyes they had no chance of finding. Without a word spoken they let out a breath.

      Undoubtedly some friend would find them; both lifeless, only heads covered by a blanket in the summer sun. The candles would have burned out, the record playing an unwavering static. There would be rumors. A story. A great mystery like the kind she used to love. They’d be a mystery. A present day Mulder and Scully who’d succumb to their own desire to experience the unknown. But those closest to them would know, they'd done something original. Together they just stopped submitting to the most natural obligation. Freeing themselves from the decisions that the rest of us are plagued with. Letting that night remain eternal.

 

The Masses

I don't cry. I'm still faking smiles. My eyes don't focus. My hands shake. I'm still not hungry. I am even. But I am not numb. My brain is screaming, laughing, crying, kicking, howling behind a soundproof glass window of medication. I know this noise is there, but I can't hear it all the time. I hear it when I wake up in the morning. Or the middle of the night. I hear it when I'm driving for too long. I hear it when I'm alone while the sun sets.
Nothing can be tied up.
Nothing can be finished.
Just ignored.
Ignore each other.
Ignore our conscience. 
Ignore the heart you stole
And the one you forgot you had.

Defective

I’m driving.

            I’m always driving. I prefer it after midnight. My hand is limp on the steering wheel and my foot is only resting on the gas. I have no direction. Something about streetlights, or headlights, or break lights, or starlight makes me think of every moment of my life simultaneously; like one of those montages in a movie. I’m on some street stopping briefly because a sign told me to. A new song by an old band is playing and it happens.

            They come all at once, not sorted by time or person. Maybe sorted by a feeling I vaguely remember. It was important once I know, but I don’t know how to tell what is or will be important anymore. The drums kick in and it all sounds familiar.

I’m remembering a soft hand squeezing mine in a house I’ll probably never return to; its fingers lacing through mine. I acted like I didn’t care, but it was the first hand I let roam over mine in years. The same soft hand is wrapped around my waist, its owner is wrapped around me and I can’t catch my breath or quiet the sounds coming out of my mouth.

            Then it’s a rough hand pushing down on my pelvis and the same sounds are escaping me. My hands claw for sheets and air. It hurts and it’s fine and it was love. It was love, I’m sure, but it doesn’t feel like I want. I was broken. That’s what we decided.    

            I’m turning into a neighborhood I’ve only been in to turn around and head back the way I came. There was a time I accidentally lit a trashcan on fire with a cigarette that wasn’t done burning. I never leave the cherry unattended anymore. All the nights in the park on that cold metal bench blur together. Every time feels like an epiphany and the right time to have one. Whether it’s the warmth of the tea and my favorite sweatshirt or the sound of her voice when she convinces me I’m not a complete failure, I don’t know. When she leaves it all feels the same and what was said those nights only come back when the streetlights are flickering.

            I shared so many nights with a pair of tired green eyes and cigarette smoke; in the garage, on curbs, in parking lots, in the back of that old truck, on the roof. Then I stared at them like I had so many times and they led me to bed. Like the brown ones, and the blue ones that came first. I loved them all I think. Or I thought I did, which doesn’t make a difference. Those green eyes still burn though. Like that cigarette that never went out. They all do. Whether it’s imagined or sincere. They burn and I can’t stop wondering when it’ll all die down.

           

            The nicotine is stinging my throat and the smoke is caught in my eyes. The mascara’s dried like a child’s Halloween face paint. I haven’t felt so much like myself in months. With all these tears you’d think I felt it all. I just remember though, I don’t feel it at all anymore. 

"You're a Strong Racehorse"

Being that I am now a part time truck driver I have a lot of time to contemplate the state of my life whilst navigating the "open roads" of Stepford-esque housing tracts. Since my life is apparently in a chronic state of chaos that flows more than it ebbs this contemplation is not only a habit of mine, but necessary for survival, and the well being of others, because let's face it, I know it's not easy to be around me all of the time.

Without delving into the details I've talked to death already, my heart has been broken, or at least shaken violently. I'm currently penciling this in as the most painful occurrence, seeing as I can't bring myself to hate the person responsible, or even dislike them a little bit. There are so many excuses, and honest to God reasons, and fears, and insecurities, and patience being ignored running through our small community as of late...and though I have been trying to wade through the mess making sense of it all, because I feel it is my duty.
I can't.
And over the loud clunking of the engine this morning I've realized...I can't.
Stop Kailee. Just stop.

It isn't a secret to me, or you, or anyone maybe, that I try to hold too much in my little hands because I trust myself and no one else. When someone lets go of my hand, yanks it away, I will inevitably break down, fall to my knees in the dramatic fashion I hope captures every pained emotion on my face. I want those expressions etched into your brain. I want you to know all the things I feel, but here's where I'm wrong....
It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that I keep loving everyone to death. It doesn't matter that my ears, my heart have served as a confessional for more or less everyone I know. It doesn't matter that I could be the brightest light in everyone's life (maybe not brightest, like a consistently warm light, but not too bright, come on I'm still talking about me here...) because my solitude is so fucking dark. I don't know exactly where I lost my way. I know who, and who, and who, and who made me feel like I only mattered or didn't matter in reference to someone else, but I didn't realize how much I believed it.

So you were right. You- my friends, or family, or exboyfriend, or ex-people who weren't ever really my boyfriends. You're right. I need to fix things. I'm not perfect and trust me I'll never let myelf live it down. I will rebuild.

But... I will always be too much.

Too much love.
Too much understanding.
Too much willingness.
Too much strength.
Too much patience.
Too much to say.
Too much to feel.
Too much romance.
Too much imagination.
Always too much love, though, always.

And one day that will be enough.

Familiar

I lost myself somewhere between the bar and the dance floor.
I felt whole held gently in your arms,
with your eyelashes grazing my cheek
I let out that deep breath I'm usually holding,

The song would have to end,
We'd have to bow,
close the curtains on whatever characters we thought we were playing.
Your eyes opened,
I thought they looked brighter

I made my way back to the bar
begging our eyes to re-focus,
our mouths to dry up.
I fished for my keys vowing I'd fall asleep to only empty dreams.

And then you reached for my hand.

To Whom It May Concern:

The girl is disappearing and you have to let her go. 
You should have let her quietly slip into the shadowy corners of your memory years ago when you started on this path it seems you will follow for as long as you both shall live. Perhaps it is not sadness you feel, or guilt, or loss. Perhaps you can't wrap the words around the tip if your tongue. Perhaps it's just that old habits die hard, but you don't want to watch her drowning anymore. No one does. Not even her, and she can't breathe properly while you hold on with the firmest fleeting grasp. 


The calendar has replenished itself, as it does,  with blank pages, filled with days and days of endless trial and error, and trial. And you will succeed, and she will exist beyond your comprehension as she has always been meant to do. And while you may try to search through the pages to find a note that will predict the next sideways glance or crooked smile you cannot find it now, though you must know it will come. And while the pit of your stomach burns with a longing you don't understand, for a glimpse of a memory that was unfairly dragged into the present, you will have created a present more overwhelmingly beautiful than you could have done trying to hang on to this girl. 


So let her disappear. Let her breathe. And lastly, don't criticize how she treads water. Because if you truly let her go you must trust that she will make it to shore on her own, and that if you ever become concerned that she didn't, all you have to do is ask. 

Everyone Shut Up.

Be Careful, Kailee.
Hold your tongue.
Don't call.
Ignore her.
Brush it off.
Don't see him.
Don't try.
Be careful.
Be careful
Be careful
Be quiet
Shut your mouth
Hide
Be social
Don't tell them what you're feeling
Pretend you're not feeling
Act happy, like you don't care, like you do care, modest, arrogant, smart, stupid, shy, outgoing
Act
Act
Act
Don't say I love you.
Play hard to get.
Be open, but not available.
Make plans. Fake plans.
Be busy.
Just relax.
Relax.
Relax.


Be yourself, but not quite.

Am I right? I think so, and that's all that matters.

I knew these girls and these boys who steal from people constantly, maybe even subconsciously. But it's necessary, for they'd be invisible without slowing pillaging little bits of other people's personalities.  

You go to shows now? It sure looks cool if you do!
You wear DIY shorts? Punk rock!
You think binge drinking on weekends is something I should be shocked about? Please!
You're such a hopeless mess, right? How hip!

Invent problems. Hide your sorry tongue stumbling over the words that probably came out of someone else's mouth first. I told everyone you'd be the best story he'd ever read. I should have guessed the story would be one I wrote.
You sure said sweet things when you were lying half naked in my bed. And you said them to her, and to her, and to her. Thank you for giving me 100%....of your bullshit.
Bravo. Really, you're playing this part better than I could have expected.

Do you feel bad? Is this about you? Probably.

Command more attention.
Act more like _____ Dress more like _____ Talk more about _____ Listen to _____ Read_____ Drink_____ Smoke_____

Try harder.
Try harder.
Try harder.

Because you told me to write every day...

This is what I think today.

I think that there is no point in telling anyone anything anymore because it's all just the same stories tumbling out of my mouth like I don't already know that you already know what happens.

No more stories.

Not until someone makes them worth telling.