I have this terrible nightmare fantasy that if he publishes this sestina I wrote and later in my life anything else i've ever written or created is destroyed in a (insert planetary disaster) and the sestina book will be the only thing that survives of me, forever. I will probably let him though, so he stops making a b-line for and standing in front of me in the hallway of Andrews whenever he sees me then talking to me all manic while standing way too close while I am obviously uncomfortable.
I just counted the different fonts/font sizes used on the form. There are twelve.
It's been raining all day. I have a meeting in two hours and didn't to bike home then bike back to campus. This morning I experienced the first feeling on my back of "Shit, I am almost literally too spent to keep pedaling" because the wind was into my face with the rain and I was soaked and my thighs so cold and unresponsive. But I made it.
I lately have the impression of me as one trying to cram oneself into the ideal molds everyone worth pleasing has set forth. Not in a martyry way, something more lost and desperate. Please let me please you. If anyone were to ask how to please me, I would never tell the truth, but I would want to. Inside I am always wondering why nobody asks me. This may be narcissism.
I have been thinking about commonalities, the little threads that tie us together.
It seems that they grow brittle with time if more are not added. I guess I just see a day when we've all talked about the good old times too much, the Kuz, shared acquaintences, etc. Already some of the people we continually bring up in social gossip-style conversation, I realize I have seen these people maybe what, once? twice? in the past couple years.
That one thing we once did together, those times we had. We're just going to sit around talking about them forever, aren't we. This is what puts the dull in adult.
I fear the withering of things that used to please me.
reciprocity and symbiosis
i am bored, i am always so bored