you sit on your bed feeling like you might be dying but you don’t really mind because writing distracts you [it always distracts you] and right now so does the music because your muse doesn’t like hairspray or anything too toe-tappingly upbeat and you wait for so long, frank lloyd wright or mrs. robinson or on the willows or something slow and melodic like that.
—
you pause and look at your toes for a little bit and notice that one is pink and the other four on that foot have that funny purple tinge that comes from not wearing shoes or socks even when it’s cold outside and in (and right now it’s unreasonably chilly again) and you think this is ridiculous because you never like the cold.
—
you start and stop again and look at what you just wrote, admiring your handwriting, which has always been mostly illegible, but this is fine because it is DIFFERENT and people know it’s yours when they see it and that it doesn’t belong to thirty other girls {who are all named chelsea or audrey or melissa or (whatever the most popular name for baby girls was in 1987)}.
—
you wander off for a little while and wonder why your shoulder hurts but decide it doesn’t matter, but that a hot shower might improve it and you probably should take one before the play tonight anyway because all the people you know and love and hate and only see once a year will be there.
—
you remember that writing is a lifestyle but it gets ANNOYING sometimes because you are constantly writing in your stream-of-conciousness and this often causes you to trip over your own feet when walking to the parking lot because you don’t want to stop to write it down and your hand is already covered in ink anyway [and not from a tattoo parlour].
—
you manage to get some of this mess of a ramble down on paper before it escapes you again but you can’t help but mourn the loss of countless poems [and other (genius) thoughts] because your fancy IS A CAMEL and your pen {is the eye of a needle}.
“Writing is a lifestyle”, and, as you say, “annoying”, but it’s so addictive.