I have a new idea for my next tattoo and I think it’s very fitting.
Now I just have to scratch the itch and get it done.
And there’s also the money thing…but either way.
T.S. Eliot, why have you affected my life so much?
I want to be Michaelangelo, not J.Alfred Prufrock.
Things need fixing.
Whenever I blink, another thought appears.
I feel scrambled (and I don’t even like eggs that much) and out of order.
Boxes line the floor of my old bedroom, begging to be unpacked to settle in with my parents. Although I’m a little embarrassed to move back with them, I’m filled with relief that they offer me a home with open arms.
Daytime passes so quickly now,
and my jelly of a brain sloshes around, trying to take the form of something positive.
I’ve always been talented with putting on a decent face of happiness to the outside world, but I’m afraid to turn the light off. Not of the monsters that reside under my box springs (we’ve become friends, you see), but more so of where my mind decides to wander. The mind is a ladder; able to take someone to unbelievable heights, but one false move, and it comes crashing down to the pavement.
My thoughts not only confuse me, but I’m also alarmed by them. I need to just disturb the universe and not worry the fuck about anything else. Fuck it. Fuck it all. I’m just going to rest.
I think I’ve rambled enough now. Meh, who am I kidding. Very few people read these text posts.