Problematic

I don't write enough lately. My thoughts are still so consumed by things I would rather not talk about at this point. There's no point. I keep telling myself to keep a notebook on-hand to write the fleeting interesting thoughts in. There's no reason I don't. I have dozens of them. Tiny notebooks. Waiting. But I don't. I've been thinking of moving home. I guess home, now, is where I grew up. Even that is kind of tied to Scott. I don't feel like pretending anymore. I thought I grew up with Scott, but maybe the majority of my growth was in Houston. Maybe the last 9 years have just been a regression, and that's why I never seem to be going anywhere. I want to wear sweaters with icons on them, but I don't think they're allowed a work. I don't think my hair is, technically. I tried to get something kind of natural and ended up with something kind of orange. I wanted it to be more of a bronze, I think. More reddish. I guess orange to bronze

There's a stain on the table. It's raised, so perhaps a stain is not the best word. There's a spill on the table. Of something red. Maybe tea? Maybe hibiscus? It's gathered dust. Is this a table? Is it too long? Does it matter that the chairs are attached? Does it matter that it is in a classroom? Does that make it a desk? There's a spill on the desk. I worry that my coffee will be blamed, and myself by extension- but the spill is no where near the color of coffee. It's pinkish. And a little orange. Maybe a juice? Flecks of dirt are caught in whatever this used to be. It's probably still slightly sticky. There is no obvious way to clean it and it occurs to me that the classrooms, for all I am being charged for them, are not cleaned. Trash is removed, perhaps. But I already knew most of my tuition was likely going to some football coach. To build new buildings. To subsidizing people like myself, the working poor, which I don't mind. I paid 700