I'm Not Quite Pregnant

So so so. Today.

What to say?

MY OBJECTIVES! No, not of the history variation that cause the displacement of hair to floor, to sink, to vomit in a bathtub. For years. Not those, idiot. No, not of the English variation that cause the stillness of the pen, the quiet epiphany--no need to write THIS.

Digression. No, I mean that I want to find the electric typewriter.

EXCERPT:

"Do you own a type writer?"

"Yes, I do. Why?"

"Do you use it?"

"No."

"Will you ever?"

"No. It's special to me; it was given to me by my father."

"What will become of it?"

"I guess I'll give it to someone."

"Who?"

"You, I guess."

I'm a lucky, lucky woman. Why is it that I want a typewriter? And to walk 2 miles. And to chew on lollipop sticks with no taste or hint of the lollipop I ate. ODD, ODD.

Practicalities have got me in a bind! AH AH AH! I just feel like shouting at the past for being so damned rote and specific: intervals and punctuation. The ability to spell "emulous" and be emulous itself and succeed, carry out the definition while fully knowing its meaning. I do not know. I was raised a little seed in a large field of stupidity. The Dawning of the Age of... Taurus, the stupid bull. Lacking. Jejune. I'm missing the war.

And I don't know what to say.

And I don't think I've said anything.

I need that typer.