acmarkel
We giggle a lot in my apartment. Silly little things that relieve the tension of senior year at university, when a conversation is too much for our fried brains and all we can manage is stupid one liners that send us into peals of laughter. Generally at each other.
In london, people are throwing bricks through windows, looting and ravaging the poorest parts of the city. I heard about the riots on facebook, that ever-adapting universe that has somehow become more than just a social networking site and is now a way to communicate news across an ocean. Something at the bottom of my ribcage hurts at the news, and my lack of involvement. I'm not there, I can't be there, and meanwhile my friends in the states make status updates about their same old tedious lives.
locks say things. they tell you that you are not allowed inside, that there is something on the other side of the lock that is secret, and important. I lock my house, my car, i lock up the dog when I leave, lock teh bathroom door when I pee, or shower. No one ever locks up that which they find unimportant.
I've always dreamed of being able to fly. When I was little, I was half-convinced that I actually could. I never had wings in those dreams, but I've imagined what big, white, feathered things would look like coming out of my shoulderblades.
this one is awfully similar in sound to yesterday's word, but what a difference there is between amuse and muse. Just one letter. How A Musing. (punny!)
Today's 60 seconds is pretty shit, not gonna lie. Oh well.
I missed a real thunderstorm when I was in England. I saw a few flashed of light, maybe, once or twice - that is, if I didn't imagine them. there's nothing, though, that can top a good stor. Watching them roll in over Lake Michigan, the hiss of rain meeting water, and someone's parent yelling for you to come in out of the storm.
i fell ill nearly constantly when I was abroad. even today, I have a jackie kennedy-esque rasp, and people who didn't know me six months ago are surprised to hear this isn't my normal pitch. "It's sexy," say some people, and others just laugh in surprise. It garnered compliments in England, although my personal opinion is that since most of the unsolicited ones were from hookups, it was mostly just a ploy to get in my pants.
Even today, i still recognize that my voice retains the husky rasp I picked up in england. The only time I really mind is when we go out, and a husky rasp suddenly becomes a struggle to so much as speak, much less to make myself heard over a thrumming bass or shitty lyrics.
There was a skeleton in the closet. It was the last thing I expected to see, upon pulling open the door in the upstairsmost bedroom. We had only just moved into the house, upon Mrs Chatterly's not-entirely-unexpected death, and all afternoon I had been chasing my brother around the house, exploring her outdated possessions.