I’ve never been arranged.

All’s my life, I’ve been erratic. I don’t know how to describe it. Its such a pain to concentrate. My thoughts wander, like Wonder Woman on a quest. Related but Unrelated words calling out to me without form or function.

I don’t remember things. Attention span? What’s that? Can I eat shawarma with it? I guess not.

When do things like this denigrate from quirks to flaws? After all, I should be making eye contract when you speak. I shouldn’t be distracted by the curve of your bosom, nestled firmly against soft silk. I shouldn’t think about the shape of lips, puckered most times, threatening favors unleashed. Wow, I’m really writing. I’m doing it!

When I was 7, I wrote a book. My handwriting was soo poor, I couldn’t read most parts of it. But writing is time and patience and I had neither. I’ve always envied people with calligraphic writings, gifted by the gods to properly spin aesthetics on paper, the record of time.

Wow. Marijuana is a hell of a drug. I’ve had quite the week, up and downs ( sounds like a sexual activity butt fuck it) it’s been largely cool. No lies therapy been working, I hope.

I actually did it. I wrote words in a clean sheet of paper. I conquered the parched, dead slate that is an empty sheet and filled it with actual human words.

Hurray.