1o2. very strange.


Penny lane. That’s what it was, me babbling over the phone, trying to figure out a lyric that caught me at a weird time. I started crying and the conversation was really a monologue, me babbling and babbling, the feel of flour deju vu and being sane in insane places.

If I speak it flows too well, babbling brook that doesn’t require a stopper or even a bottle, like the green bottle I brought home with the camera and the phone and the lanturn, my first drawing from figures and how strane it was, to see your car there, and how presumtuous of me to want to join. No no no, I was never part of your fab foursome, I have my own, thank-you kindly, we have tea and crumpets and marshmellows with the stars. I’m not really paranoid, I’m not really laid back, I’m not standing tall because I couldn’t be any kind of tree, I’m a fucking shrub. Quote, unquote. Really cotent to be a cog in the midst of shinyshiny gears, not a cog that’ll be remembered but it sound sorta like clogs, with you where when square dancing in circles. I never understood that- the damn things get circular, ripples in a wood carving, freshmen amusing in their attempts to weird out the master. Meow all you want, kid, call out ‘faggot fagoot fagret” or any variation thereof, maybe the freshman girl, the only other girl, will be more than frustrated. Maybe someday I’ll lose my indifference, but for now a cheery comment about your mother goes a long way into baffled silence. You ask me why I wear lipstick and I relized that I am incapable of sinking back into myself, capable of shrugging and answering sarcastic questions with a smile. I don’t see why emerica’s are snazzy enough shoes to remember me by, but hey. Your memory, not mine. Mine are Deja Vu of a dream and a desk and a test grade, paper snowball fights and frost that was loved, secret trees and spies and a weird hierarchy with the third-grade boys on top. You’re probably a dancer now, Katie, singing your Latvian songs and moved to company, on pointe and graceful, brilliant and we probably wouldn’t know each other still, like we did as best friends. You are smart, have won invention prizes. I revel in my lack of a work ethic, content to be part of the masses and just as ready to die as to live. I feel not like a child, because I know my mortality, and I would rather live, thank you please. I like this place, I am not yet ready to find others. I am never in any danger from myself, unless we are talking my future. It was future career day, and I grabbed a wig and a ratty sweater and paint pants and tech-taped shoes, some cardboard and dumped ot the seeds of a shaker, a philly cream cheese shaker for the kitchen composition musical investigation thing, into an old CD cover-thing, for blank discs, earned a few pennies and a dollar and my cardboard sign read “I’m like Obama, I want change” on the back “I asked for change, NOT MONEY”, but I got money regardless, and the least political paper covering said “Will learn for change” it should have read for (a) change.

Mewo. I’ll never learn.


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