A Diphthong of Days

All of these stupid, stupid songs. These stupid, stupid movies. And these STUPID, STUPID episodes of What I Like About You. They make me believe that maybe one day I'll have that. Or some variation of it. I don't want to sit at a fancy table and drink water from a wineglass. I don't want to hold hands in a meadow and shield my sweaty brow from the sweaty sun. And I do not... do not... want smalltalk. I don't want it. Who would want it?

I cannot think. It's one of those weeks where the thought just is gone somewhere, but I know he'll return again. He always does. Eventually. The first time he went away, I got real worried. Got. Real. Worried. I says to him, "Hey, hey. Where are you?" but there was no reply resonating in the echoing hollows that are: my mind. So I calls him again; I calls him 23 times and he won't show up for dinner or for any of my lovely afterparties. He showed up later, though. You know, he's lucky I'm so forgiving. If I weren't, I'd shut him out.... But then I'd become an adult. And no, we cannot have that yet. Or ever.

Goodmorning.