Posts
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
7-11 saved my life
It's gotten as ridiculous as this: I calculated how much I can spend until my next paycheck without taking money from my savings. This is what it's come to: two taquitos fresh from 7-11.
Friday, November 14, 2008
I want to dance again.
This is my first 'November Post.'
Days are becomer shorter, some are longer. Days on end I find myself doing the same repetive things. I have become a maniac at cleasliness. I sleep, and naps have become a must I begin to wonder why I never liked them when I was younger. Every now and then I'll take out the frying pan, some ingredient I've never seen and throw it together with salt and pepper in hopes of a meal. I have learned to cook.
I'm only eighteen - maybe most eighteen year olds are already used to this. But I have no time for myself. The time I have for myself is when I'm on the bus in solitude, ignoring every brushing shoulder and 'BACK DOOR' that bellows out of the slow pokes who don't make it to the exit on time. The time I have for myself is ... never. I'm always pre occupied. What does the next pay cheque go to? In class my mind will wander from discussing the Truman Doctrine to 'how will I divide my money up so ... or how many more shifts at work can I pick up so I'm not digging into my pockets for money, I must have already made holes in them.' One second I'll think I have time to go up and down Main Street marvelling at the local designers, and the next minute that's scratched out and replaced by another errand.
This is my get away. Writing is my get away. Dance was my get away. I want to dance again.
Sincerely,
Kyla
Days are becomer shorter, some are longer. Days on end I find myself doing the same repetive things. I have become a maniac at cleasliness. I sleep, and naps have become a must I begin to wonder why I never liked them when I was younger. Every now and then I'll take out the frying pan, some ingredient I've never seen and throw it together with salt and pepper in hopes of a meal. I have learned to cook.
I'm only eighteen - maybe most eighteen year olds are already used to this. But I have no time for myself. The time I have for myself is when I'm on the bus in solitude, ignoring every brushing shoulder and 'BACK DOOR' that bellows out of the slow pokes who don't make it to the exit on time. The time I have for myself is ... never. I'm always pre occupied. What does the next pay cheque go to? In class my mind will wander from discussing the Truman Doctrine to 'how will I divide my money up so ... or how many more shifts at work can I pick up so I'm not digging into my pockets for money, I must have already made holes in them.' One second I'll think I have time to go up and down Main Street marvelling at the local designers, and the next minute that's scratched out and replaced by another errand.
This is my get away. Writing is my get away. Dance was my get away. I want to dance again.
Sincerely,
Kyla
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