Hmm... ibuprofen is starting to taste good to me. I would call this a foreboding sign.
I really want to write a story of some kind, but I don't know what I'd write. Maybe I should start with a very short fiction drawn directly from something real, so I can flex my brain without having to invent too much.
I miss my family.
"You hate me."
Yes, I hate you. I hate you because I like you. Does that make sense? Of course it doesn't. "No, I don't hate you."
"Well, you don't like me because you think I'm weird."
It's weird how nice your feet look when you're standing over me. "No, I don't think you're weird." I think I should be in a high-security prison.
He doesn't know!
"Amanda!! I haven't seen you anymore. Ever."
There's a reason for that. And I'm so not telling you.
He doesn't know.
"You're doing a lot of homework. You need to stop doing so much homework."
Haha... thanks for the advice. So we can be acquaintances after all?
If I don't blow it.
I'm gonna look back at this and shake my head.
First of all, I WAS RIGHT. Running away is just a leftover habit, but somehow it definitely triggers the problem. I feel fine if I keep myself from bolting.
Also, I had a thought the other day.
(Yeah!)
Our tongues have sections designed for sweetness, sourness and so on. If we had just one section each and we only could know the flavor of something all at once, then the depth of tastes -- as we experience them individually and roughly simultaneously -- would be impossible. The levels of a flavor are like the instruments in a song: if you couldn't tell one instrument from another, I think you'd just hear noise.