press record

So this is not sharing. This is a journal scrap. I have to record something, just so that I exist, or I stare on forever. But I keep my elbows close, and I can hear another fight brewing. And I see you sometimes, but I don't say hello.

I am trying to get Adam to play on my computer, because I really would like to watch it, but it never does. then I stare at pages from The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, press my face into the paper.

I should have gone to gym today. I should have, but I didn't. And so nothing anchors me—just this hatred, this scrap loneliness.