Writing from my own words, about myself. Me me me. I am her, she, this thing I always speak of.
I always work my words around like a little thesaurus, trying to make my mundane little life seem more exciting and profound. I write about waiting to cross the street. Something tells me that none of this is working, I'm really not fooling anyone.
I could bitch and moan and groan about all the trivial daily things that, "Piss the shit" out of people.
My computer is broken.
My disc man is in toronto.
I am lonely as all get out.
But heavens, Samantha, do it with some class.
Communication is a distant thing these days. She sat silently, waiting for a response, instead a message came about telling her all would be momentarily lost.
Her life grew quiet, and her nights went on the same. She could choke on the empty air around her, when all the things she craved were thousands of miles away.
It was cold outside and the roads were covered with ice. The city slept under a soft white blanket of snow. There was no one about, and she was completely alone.
What I'm trying to say is, I'm tired of pretending. But I'll keep doing it anyway.