At this very moment, I am at peace. The world around me has sat down, and maybe not shut up, but at least changed their tone to one more to my liking.

Surrounded by half-completed precalc assignments and French that will go unstudied, sitting upon my Tinkerbell sheeted bed, life is just fine. Pandora sings to me, of Ruffians Born that way, a Band of Spintos, Kids from the Cold War, and Wombats singing bits about Joy Division. My shirt depicts a politician who deserves respect for his work in the field of his titlesake, and is soaked with piercing antiseptic because of my precise clumsiness. The guarana from another drained bottle of vitaminwater pierces my veins and keeps me going strong; the bizarre vibrate indicates a new piece of hope via text, piercing straight to my brain.

I'm having two conversations with the same person, just in different places. Why? Because. They are two unrelated conversations.

New Pornographers come on and I want to dance. But I really just want to write.

I want to write because while my heart is light and contented with the state of misery I am subject to at all times as a sort of repentence, the blood dries with the ink. I am free to wash away all with the sweeping shorthand, the Phonenician symbols meaning more than any actions I could ever perform.

Trust me.

This is it.

I'm blogging too much already. Fantastic.

Pandora: Born Ruffians, ofMontreal, Franz Ferdinand, & Myriad.
Eat cookies. They're good for you.

"would you believe me if i said the elephant in the room was YOU NOT BEING IN MY BED? & you'll never know, you'll never see until you're dead."