Disarray: I Spend Too Much Time Trying to be Poetic
I'll take the time to find where the folds will be and draw pictures of us in the margins. Every note is an open secret. The loud whispers of a child, there's a foolish expectation you'll keep between us, but a deeper understanding that everyone will know.
S'mores Halo Top is garbage. I don't know why I even got Halo Top, it's not like I felt diet ice cream was something I needed to add into my rotation of snacks.
Today's vignettes:
Like A Virgin
There are a few things I have never forgotten. It's not really as though all of them are momentous occasions. I remember the difficulty of learning to ride a bike from my mom on our driveway. We live on a little hill. Perhaps not a hill. A mound? There's a significant slope to the drive way, either way, and it is cracked. The cracks aren't small, either. They're great big slabs of concrete that have broken away from the rest of the driveway and would wobble if you stood on them. This was not the best learning environment. I didn't learn. This memory is now linked to the memory of Scott teaching me to ride a bike at night on one of the dark and quiet streets next to campus. The space was more even. I fell onto a car. It was fun, but I never learned to go fast. I never learned to appreciate speeding down a hill, so Scott lost interest in us biking together because I held him back.
Another one of those things is losing my virginity. Which, after typing it out, is kind of a gross phrase. I guess- another one of those things I have not forgotten is the first time I had sex. Which is a partially true statement, because I honestly don't remember the sex as much as one specific moment leading up to the sex.
Punch Bowl Social
The Comfort of Forgetting
3005
The day I met you I fell into an oil timer. I should be happy you were never selfish enough to try to hold me in your orbit. It took a long time to find another person to drown in, but it wasn't the same. I left the colorful imbalance of getting to be myself with you to the desperation of being stuck in the outer atmosphere of a cold dead planet pretending to be alive. Stuck growing colder.
We used to pass notebooks with pages of the stories of our day. Maybe that's why I can't remember, because I gave all my memories to you.
I think I've grown away from the nasal outrage of The Decemberists.
S'mores Halo Top is garbage. I don't know why I even got Halo Top, it's not like I felt diet ice cream was something I needed to add into my rotation of snacks.
Today's vignettes:
Like A Virgin
There are a few things I have never forgotten. It's not really as though all of them are momentous occasions. I remember the difficulty of learning to ride a bike from my mom on our driveway. We live on a little hill. Perhaps not a hill. A mound? There's a significant slope to the drive way, either way, and it is cracked. The cracks aren't small, either. They're great big slabs of concrete that have broken away from the rest of the driveway and would wobble if you stood on them. This was not the best learning environment. I didn't learn. This memory is now linked to the memory of Scott teaching me to ride a bike at night on one of the dark and quiet streets next to campus. The space was more even. I fell onto a car. It was fun, but I never learned to go fast. I never learned to appreciate speeding down a hill, so Scott lost interest in us biking together because I held him back.
Another one of those things is losing my virginity. Which, after typing it out, is kind of a gross phrase. I guess- another one of those things I have not forgotten is the first time I had sex. Which is a partially true statement, because I honestly don't remember the sex as much as one specific moment leading up to the sex.
Punch Bowl Social
The Comfort of Forgetting
3005
The day I met you I fell into an oil timer. I should be happy you were never selfish enough to try to hold me in your orbit. It took a long time to find another person to drown in, but it wasn't the same. I left the colorful imbalance of getting to be myself with you to the desperation of being stuck in the outer atmosphere of a cold dead planet pretending to be alive. Stuck growing colder.
We used to pass notebooks with pages of the stories of our day. Maybe that's why I can't remember, because I gave all my memories to you.
I think I've grown away from the nasal outrage of The Decemberists.
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