I seriously am amazed at just how much stuff eighteen years can accumulate across two rooms. I've hardly been alive long enough to have the autonomy of choosing my own things to have, and yet there's all these stacks of glitter pots and a big painted box that I don't have the memory of origin.
I'm still trying to sell off the old clothes and things. I've resolved to take it all in one go- whatever they won't take I'll simply dump off at a Goodwill. Do my best to not go in and browse the books; can't promise anything.
I think I'll spend my whole break cleaning out, working on a little play I already hate, and attacking the clustered mosquito bites on my ankles until they crack and bleed and probably scar a little. There's not much else to do. Work, yeah. Schoolwork, of-fucking-course. The movies look dull and I'm sure the only thing the people inviting me out have planned is to get into a lot of trouble.
I used to be like that. Relished in it- Florida girl swaying with a red cup out on a balmy night, stuck talking to an old loser-boy I got no interest in but too outta my mind to have really cared. That's been exhausted for me, though. So many incidents you can have like that before you just get consumed.
I got Leonard Cohen spinning out in my background. I like that old, croaky-mad voice. Gonna get me through cleaning, maybe get me through the rest of my list.
I have a lot to do.
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