it gets harder and harder to tell stories that are real.
and i know why. it’s because those that i have are not really mine to tell. they involve other people, people who deserve privacy. it wouldn’t be fair for me to tell you of their sadness and worry and stress. it just wouldn’t.
so instead, i can only think of silly things to tell you, like how i am afraid that the “ponytail haircut” matt gave me is really a mullet in disguise and how all this time that i thought i was smitten with wyatt from trackstar it was really the other band member who had caught my eye. oh, me. maybe i really am a cartoon character waiting to happen.
a year ago, i rekindled my love for a cocktail. today, i’m desperately falling for oatmeal.
i don’t get it, either.