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For me to take your word, I had to steal it.

"Mommy wants to write."

puuurrrrr

"Mommy doesn't want a kitty in her lap."

Then he settles in. It's hard to tell if he's trying to comfort me, or if he's a greedy animal... and my bet is he's just a greedy animal looking for a warm spot.

.

These days it's not so much what's said, or what's written, but about what's never said, and what's never written.

It seems there's some conspiracy at work, never ridding us of the past here. They never fully go away, not the way they should if this was "real life". Because if this was real life, we would never have to read (know) about anything past our last touching point. It would all be blessed ignorance. Ignorance is bliss.

I'm sick of editing. I'm tired of letting these thoughts bounce around in my head all day because someone may decide to read this. Someone may be upset, someone may stop talking to me, and someone else may decide to continue to remain unspoken.

While I'm being accused of moving on with my life, I'm standing here pointing my finger northward accusing the same thing. Which is silly, and I guess I wouldn't be feeling this way if I felt like I was actually cared for. Or maybe I just would like to see the pain I went through, and not trite descriptions of daily activities.

Then anger backs up in my throat, and I stop caring about anything. Smile and nod at the grossness of my grandmother, who is surely my lesson in empathy... I've been getting those lately. I start thinking about furniture for an apartment I can't afford yet, I start thinking about just being alone, and the feeling I get is one of joy. Just being by myself, without all this drama and feelings, just cut myself off from it, go back into hiding like my years in San Francisco.

"Meow?"

"No. Mommy's writing."

only in america can a beautiful smart girl like you be depressed