streamofconciousness
There are always leftovers after a big meal, and my mom and grandma won't rest until they've fought to the death about who gets to take them home. NO YOU. WE WON'T EAT THEM. BUT THEY'RE SO EASY TO WARM UP. PLEASE TAKE THEM. it's a madhouse. every holiday. I always try to get as many leftovers as i can out of my grandma. She's always trying to feed me, that one. I have serious sway with that woman. My mom tries to keep us healthy, but we all know that HEALTHY isn't a word to be described with grandmas. So i vie for the leftover pie and cakes and chip dip. And most of the time, it works. But then my brothers just eat it all anyway. Figures.
life revised. what would i take out? what would i leave? what kind of things would i say to myself as i went along, erasing my dumb moments. What would i question about my past? would i see things i had long forgotten about? how would revising my life change my perspective? and at the end of the day...would i change anything?
this mind of mine is barren. i came back to this paper again and again, trying to think of something romantic, something poetic, something that didn't make me sound washed up. i couldn't think of anything. i can't.
soup soup soup. i don't even like soup. it's basically flavored water, right? i don't like that gross lemon water shit, so why would i like runny tomato paste?
although, i do really like this white bean chili stuff my aunt makes.
my aunt and cousins are in disneyland without me right now. i'm so sad and mad. i want to be there too.
soup. soup. soup. soup <disneyland.
for some, the skeleton is what defines them. it can be used to identify anything, and that's how we know what dinosaurs look like right? but i don't like that. not one bit. if my bones are found 100 years from now, i don't want them to just fit me together like a jigsaw and tell everyone that i was a teenaged, caucasian girl who lived in the 21st century, died of whatever it may be. if i'm going to go down in history, i don't want people just gaping at my bones all the time, i want them to know how i was. i won't let my innards define me. i think i'll bury myself with a journal.
i found out that my mom is cheating on my dad. i am so tempeted to just go off on her, but is that thing? will it do more harm than good? there is no way out of this, that's all that's certain...but who do i tell?
what exactly is a deadbolt? i thought of A Christmas Carol when i read it, but that was a door knocker that showed Marley's face. a deadbolt could be lots of things when you don't know what it is, which i think is part of the beauty of imagination. if you don't know what it is, then it's anything. isn't that a cool concept?
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