I’m up before the chance to snooze, buying myself just enough time to shut the alarm off before it goes, shrieking, interrupting a dream in which a classmate asks me what her name is, but I’ll never tell, because I’m just not an option and now I know this. I think I’ve always known, but it’s about time that I took a real stand; a Constanza if you will, on all of my past relations. Mind you, there aren’t a plethora to choose from, and most of them are made up, but even still, they were all worth the pain of false pleasures; of being together without actually being together, but enough about all of them. It’s time to start my morning.
There’s no one on the streets at close to five fifty-six, and I’m still a good fifteen minutes late to my final destination, and when I finally arrive, I’m immediately lost in a shuffle of unfinished paperwork, where unpaid bills comprise most of my paper trail, and inefficiency serves as my only skill, alongside an unparalleled incompetency in the business world, where time’s killed catching up on Wilmore and J-Stew. It’s the only time I can, though, because my day isn’t over until they’re both airing that night’s show. It means well, and so do I, but it’s an apathy I can’t outgrow. I want to slow move and no longer quick stop.
I spend much of my afternoons roaming hallways or staying still, staring head on at a computer screen writing and deleting my own words. They’re not good, but the two of you already knew that. I don’t actually have class; both the academic and the social standing. I’ve barely nailed the hanging out part of interaction. Truth be told, it’s taxing. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s more like I have obstractions. That’s a combination of obstacles that also serve as distractions. They’re not the welcome kind like you all are, and I’m not really attracted to a loathed lifestyle of driving back and forth to a city that will never be my own.
Secluded yellow lines faded on a cracked black pavement. Our stars align, and I find myself babbling on about things we have in common. I fully realize all the time of yours that I’m wasting, but the thought of stopping cold turkey is failing. Clock’s seven minutes to eleven, and sleepiness is an ailment that hasn’t been self-diagnosed yet. My words are our worst enemy, despite being some of my best friends, but I’ve still learned nothing walking from building to blacktop, about how it’s less far from over, and more buried six feet under. Chances upon chances will not change the outcome, so please just go home.