Being at home in LR gives me a lot of time to think. Too much probably. I don't have school and work and people around to distract me (sometimes even all that isn't enough).

Aaaaand I get all introspective and I think too much and so I write and write. I read old things, and that's always interesting. One thing that I just found hilarious: I was talking about some boy I was crushing on, or something, and I noted that he hugged me under my coat, and somehow that meant something? I mean, it did mean something. That was almost a year ago. That day's entry ended with "Really, it's about damn time." And so it goes.

So, like I said, I get to writing.

I expect more,

More work, I'm sure, and also some play.

Work on that "play" part.

When did this stop being fun?

(Can it be fun again?)

So pick, me up, okay? Throw me around.

Sling me over your shoulder.

Make me feel light,

lightheaded.

I'd do it all the same, to be honest.

I'd be terrified.

Swing dance with me,

Become mildly frustrated when I'm not learning.

Wait for me. Yell at me this time. Let me move by myself, okay?

But move me, sometimes.

Let me come to you,

Even across the room,

All the way over there,

To that space between your ear and jawline.

Go away and come back home.

Remember how to be with me again.

Squeeze my hand.

Hurt me all over again,

Apologize, and apologize, and apologize.

It ends. Eventually.

Turn over to your side,

And then back to me,

And I would do it again, and again, and again.

You get to expecting less.