last night i brushed my hair with a fork. this morning my eyes are tired and my hands smell like cigarettes.

while walking to the coffee shop for some reason i started to think about my grandma (this is how these things come on, no warning, no time to prepare). i started to get really upset that she was so young when she died, 71, and that all my other grandparents are now past 80. and i start to ask the silly question i always ask, why her? she was the youngest. then i think about how strange it is that i still think about it and miss her, that i am still healing. i fell off my bike last week and ripped my hand apart on the asphalt. it was dirty and bloody and looking at it a week ago i thought it would never heal. but now it has almost completely and i hardly even think about it. my grandma died four and a half years ago, isn't that enought time? shouldn't i be healed? maybe it will always be with me, this open sore, a wound that never goes away.

i brushed my hair with a fork last night because i couldn't find my brush. it worked pretty well and i felt very ariel. my eyes are tired because i flopped into my huge queen size bed, all alone, at 230 am. and my hands smell like cigarettes because i smoked all night long last night. i think a queen size bed might be too big for just one person. it's size is almost like it's laughing at you, like it's asking the question, is this the best you can do? give me more bodies, fill me up. but the only thing i am having a love affair with these days is my cigarettes. we only get together at night. and i try to keep it a secret from my family, and it my friends i act like it's no big thing, oh cigarettes, whatever. don't tell anyone, but i am in love with them.


smokes.