it's hot. really hot. so hot my eyes are drying out faster than i can blink. my laundry is dirty and i don't really have it in me to go to the laundrymat. the people there are a kind i have not really known in my life, my last life, my sanitized for your protection in the nation's safest city according to the FBI life. they smell and they breathe on you and they move with sore joints because they don't have the fitness leisure time of the rich, they have to work every minute of their lives to make ends meet and the fucking thing is, what the hell else would i expect? it's a fucking laundry mat. i mean, even i am saving up for my own washer and dryer. but these are people who haven't the opportunity or the resources or the want of such modern convenience. and i know they can tell i'm not like them. and they think me weak for it.
and i fucking agree.
today is one of those days when i sit and listen to chan marshall and her schizophrenia and feel like sitting in the corner with my arms wrapped around my legs like rubber bands, rocking back and forth on an invisible hobby horse, daydreaming of elementary school summer days and the feeling of hot asphalt under my feet and raspberry burns from roller-skate falling and salty beach lips. the way the land looks while bobbing up and down just beyond the waves, the fear of seaweed wrapping around your legs, the disorientation of pushing yourself into the bottom of the wave and turning over and over and over, back in the laundrymat, under the sea. rubbing the sand off the back of your arms, and not realizing that even the ocean ends.
