Two months, three days after my birthday.

Two weeks, one day after my birthday.

Two days until my birthday.

Right now, it�s just keeping on moving. But movement is moving on, right?

I can�t believe I�ll be nineteen on Tuesday� it sounds so much older than eighteen, the same way that eighteen sounded so much older than seventeen, and so on and so forth.

This isn�t my life, it�s not a day-to-day account of what happens, or even everything that�s important. It�s just�what it is, a sporadic expression of my voyeuristic emotional urges, I guess.

Sometimes I wish this were a chronicle of everything � a chronicle of all the things I say and do, everything I think. But it just doesn�t feel right to write about black lipstick, lonely dorm rooms filled with people, or connections I can feel passing me by.

Do you ever have those days when your peripheral vision doesn�t work?


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