brookefarmer
She looked wide eyed at the mirror while she applied the thick smudges of eyeliner needed to get that perfect, smoky, fuck me look. She knew she hit the mark when she sat down at the bar and he immediately offered here a drink.
My dad still sets up camp like he did when he was an Eagle Scout. He would be angry about that sentence. According to him "once an Eagle Scout, always an Eagle Scout." He defends this position vigorously. When we camp we cannot wear our day clothes to bed and there is no using paper to get the fire going- he once started a fire using only one match in the rain to get his fire badge, he tells us.
The fluorescent lights wear me out almost as much as the job itself. By lunch I am ready to quit. Every day. I take a walk and try to convince myself that I need to get my shit together and start applying myself again but I just can't; I'm not in it anymore and I hate this place.
I am puzzled by nearly everything these days. The sun seems to come up and go down at the wrong times. Making dinner becomes such a difficult task that some nights I simply skip it. And I don't know what is happening to me.
She threw the iron skillet across the room before collapsing into her tears. She couldn't continue like this. The psyche wanted to medicate her for depression but she knew that wasn't the problem. There was a reason for her pain. It wasn't coming from nowhere- she needed to change her life.
writing since 2011 · 15 entries · 14 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Brooke showed up.
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the words Brooke reaches for
skilletlostgamenoweaglescoutfiremotherthrewbecomeswearanymorecampusingsatbar