i should really write more.

like the real stuff i used to write. how do new yorkers do it? i mean i get that ive turned into that person that runs into people and doesnt give a shit. but its not like that - really. you have to live here to understand that its nothing personal, you were just walking too slow. go ahead and bump into me too if you want. but writing?? i dont know. ive got to slow my head down for that. or speed it waaaaaay up and who wants to speed up confusion? perhaps that combination of both that comes with a glass of wine. that must be it! all the bars. its coming together now. walk realllllly fast all day: slow doooooown at happy hour. hmm. i mean i like sleep though so it might now work out. plus sometimes on saturdays i like walking really slow.

but what i was trying to say was that i should really write more because i have things to say! like this:

"There was a small screen on the bottom right hand corner of my computer. It discretely popped up to notify me you had signed on, then quickly back off again. It wasn’t that I was going to speak to you. Or honestly, that I ever would again. Only that your face was now in my head. Our laughter, your hands, and that incident in the middle of the street. Once I had refused to go home if you were not coming with me. so instead I sat in the middle of the road and did not budge without your first move. I was of course, slightly smashed. Either way, I wanted you. And now you were in my head again.

That smell of beer and cigarettes. I never before thought I’d associate these with unexpected, yet spot on connections and yes, love, and all that gushy mess that I actually believed in at that point. It was real. Now all I smell are my legs. Purple lilac breathes up my nose because I used christina’s body wash in the shower today. It’s a smell I don’t really associate with anything. One of the only ones. Although now that I think about it, my walls are a color closely related to lilac. In the family at any rate. Which means they at least exchange gifts once or twice a year. It must be hereditary then. that my legs belong in this room."

what is that? its nothing but its writing and it feels good and i like it and i should do it more.

january kinda sucks a little.