Am I supposed to remember the flavor difference between a decaf Americano and a decaf coffee?
Iced, either way.
I’m at the Barnes and Noble, drinking my second drink, I wrote a bunch of poems and nailed my French lesson for the day.
Mom’s sitting next to me. I’m a little weirded out writing next to her but I doubt she’ll care. I won’t say anything stupid just to be safe though. Does that imply that I often do otherwise? Whoops.
Chapbooks from the American Society of Poetry or some such lasting me.
But it’s not good entertainment unless it can keep you warm in the psychological dreadnaught miasma of the empty winter nights.
Nothing is, if that is the metric.
I’m sad and I don’t know why.
Not that sad.
They don’t teach CBT for fear.
Someone keeps dropping books and I’m horrified.
Crime. I could be murdered.
My family could commit homicide.
Someone could shoot up the store I’m in.
Or whenever I’m out wherever I go.
The pandemic had led to more crazies.
I have no statistic to back this up. I have no logic anymore though. What is a life without a grounded mind.
Harsh lessons aren’t lessons, they’re punishment. Sadists getting away with accolades.
My left wrist is sore from writing so much. I haven’t written this much now that I think of it, in a contiguous segment or block. Poetry and microblogposts don’t count. My sore left wrist is proof of that.
I’m enjoying my second drink, coffee that is, not booze, can’t drink booze anymore.
There’s a baby in a stroller nearby and it sounds like a mix of laughter and getting irritated that the line’s so long.
Someone’s always trying to get my attention. Delusions of reference.
Someone’s always talking to me even if they don’t know me.
Everyone hates me. Everyone wants me. Dead or alive.
Life is horrifying.
I hate my disease.