Things happen in "my life"

There are classes. They look fine, really. Splendid courses. I could learn a lot. Of course I've already taken Dr. Irvine's class, but when reading off the list to my mother, I hesitated and told her it was "different". I don't like mentioning failure, and they don't even dress it up as nothin' different. Dr. Irvine has given me an F and a D and a lot of moral support. I was planning on finishing that final, planned on her fixing up my gpa, advising me (I still can't enroll until she does something on her computer) and maybe writing me glowing recommendations.

But I'd really rather do this. Or maybe even they have an internship. But I don't know how to run away. Don't know if I need to talk to someone about getting the internship to count for course credit or something. In my head, I'd write an incredibly personal cover letter and I'd talk about my hopelessness, my detachment, my inability to succeed. I'd hope I'd come off "intelligent" and "endearing".

I dreamt about running feminism in debate, but I think an unpaid internship with the aclu prison project seems more "authentic". Feel like debate is for a bunch of "insincere" "ugly people" who are "fifteen minutes away from" playing dungeons & dragons every thursday night over over-cooked spaghetti squash with cinnamon and "brown" sugar.

Still lonely.

Oviedo

I want to believe in the narrative structure of my empty thoughts. Of course empty isn't the right word for it and I blame the computer screen, even with the sunshine turned down. I don't know what it's called. It's not bright. Brightness.

When I'm angry and alone, I think. I guess I always think but a lot of the times it sounds like this. Annoying, bulky, too many Ts, unselfconscious.

From Moab I was inspired. I wanted to write about my family or place.

But in bed that next night, I listened to Blind Pilot and fantasized about Kellen.

About reading these lyrics on my face, to him. I had a contented and maybe amused facial expression. I told him secrets unintentionally.

God, does anyone else just hate my words?

They're so fucking pretentious.

Why can't that stop?

Why can't I write like I think?

I can't think with this computer screen.

I can't write with my thoughts.

I want to claw at the veins in my forearms. It's less of a thought and more of an image, and a visceral impulse.

I want a tone like the one in my thoughts. The word "warm" won't go away in my attempt to describe it. I think it's closer to orange, with the sun turned down. When the jalapeno is roasted. Chipotle, but without those connotations. Mixed with watermelon and hot sauce. Don't think about the sweetness, but of the butcher that hates watermelon. Combine her with the distaste towards the man that hates pumpkin.

Maybe all I want is the color of pumpkin. but without ever thinking that word.

I prefer sensual to sexual. Strictly in tone. Maybe it's the keys.

They're square and pretentious. Or precocious. I don't have a grasp of the different shades of meaning. It's Mac. They're Apple keys. The white ones. Nobody can write their thoughts with these keys. Excluding the type of person that can. Who knows what they write about. Presumably celebrity gossip, indie music, and technology.

They probably don't write about whispers. Clever, subtle whispering about existential despair.

Those don't get written about on macs.

I'm not done because I want to write about Kellen, but I also want to mention all of the veins in my forearms snapping like the silk wrapped around corn on the cob. Pull, rip, dispose. Compost.

Kellen isn't veins. It's just that his name is lying around the house.

I fantasized. I (used to?) believe that whenever I fantasized I was creating an alternate universe where those fantasies occurred. In concrete reality it means I can never experience what I fantasized about, this universe is defined by the absence of the material conditions of the alternate realities I was creating.

And Blind Pilot.

There was the missed connections posting.

But when I think concretely about him, it's sexual but not in a way I can compellingly describe.

Sensual in the tone, or context. goal?

I think it's mostly about the end of Branden.

He provided the narrative ability to think about the limitations of Branden.

What are we doing?

Now I want to be done because I itch.