There's three short, connected pieces about things I'm not altogether familiar with. I've never seen people kissing in a bar, for instance (usually places with greasily varnished mahogany bars and the sour smell of stale beer and old cigarettes; ew ew ew). And I've never broken up with someone or had to seriously comfort someone who'd just broken up. But I have made sausages fried with apples and served with mashed potatoes for a meal! I do have some worldly experiences! I do!
Oh, dear. What AM I writing about, anyway?
Poor Joan. She is a bit pathetic, but maybe she is just having one of those days where you are selfish and naive and can't stand to be yourself (or when I am that way, since I don't necessarily have to project ALL of my problems). Or maybe she is just pathetic and lonely.
Anyway. I have no idea where all that was going to or from, except that they both seem to be craving affection in the wrong places for the right reasons.
I'm so mentally tired. I need this creative high, I want it badly. Can't I be used to write something true? I've got to come up with something I recognize. I think moving might give me a chance to organize and arrange some things, read my old journals. Maybe that will give me some inspiration, heeheehee. Did I tell you I've kept a journal since I was 11 years old?
I'm wondering a lot, lately, what it is in me that I've written; what does my writing say about me?