Streaming

Breathe in. I find myself lying to people about problems they're having - as if I'm having the same problems. Because otherwise my response is, "That's because you're doing it wrong." It's better to end the conversation with, "Yeah, I don't know either." Walk away. It's a Tuesday Monday. Wednesday will feel like a Wednesday and Thursday will feel like a Thursday. Friday will be too long and stretch into Saturday. Reptar. Sometimes I'm trying to type, "Stupid" and I type, "Student" instead. Same goes for "walking" and "working." I keep thinking the woman on my box of chocolate is Geena Davis. Blink, blink. I want to rest my eyes for longer. My nails are never long - I'm a biter. When I do quit, and I've quit a time or seventeen, I tend to dig my nails into my skin - don't know why. Replacement nervous habit? Which is the lesser in self destruction? Inflicting pain or eating small bits of my body? (Yes, I eat the nails. I'll acknowledge that it's gross, but I'm not going to apologize for that. That's the tip of anyone's iceberg.) I don't understand people who are perpetually late. I'd think that would mean they'd always be sick to their stomach, but it doesn't. I want a belly free of panic. Why is there an added 'k' when it becomes panicked? Picnic. It feels like the end of the school year, bracing for summer vacation. One unintended comment leaves me running for cover to recover - but recover from what, I don't immediately know. I'm a three-ring circus. My lion has escaped and my elephant is a gimp. My legs are stubbly. I remember a time when I was so excited to shave my legs. I had been the last girl (girl? lumberjack) standing. Silky days are gone. Milky. I don't know why milk and pizza ever seemed like a good idea, but it was. Milk is an accessory now. What happened to milk commercials? It's what's for dinner. And I helped. Breathe out.

Burger Queen

I had this friend growing up that would pick her nose. Just that would be fine. All kids and most (yes, I said most) adults do it too. (It's about to get gross.)

She would pick her nose, take the booger and roll it into a little ball.

(It's about to get grosser.)

Then, she would take it and place it back inside her nose, for safe keeping.

(I'm about to be gross too.)

I tried this once with her in the back of her parent's van. In a word, it was uncomfortable.

I can't explain why this happened. And I also can't explain why I have a lingering thought that she would compare the process and/or the end product as a "burger."

Hm.

I spent a large part of my childhood and a fraction of my adolescence wishing I could be as cool as that girl, independent of the booger-rolling-into-a-ball-naming-it-a-burger-and-placing-it-back-into-her-nose thing. I don't wish for my past to be different. But I do appreciate that the present allows me to examine things that happened and gives me the opportunity to say, "I'm glad I wasn't cool in that way."