drizzle and steak

So, it's Sunday. I just love how I'm expected to deal. To just stretch out to utter rubber bandwith and re-align. THANK you T, D, E, J, and S. If this is growing up, please hand back the doily socks and patent leather shoes. I mean, sure, I did it to myself this summer. And no, I wasn't traumatized like I've believed I was after every other summer (well, especially last summer... being burnt twice AND being told that people don't understand your writing really doesn't help one feel comfortable, happy, or large-ego'd). Also known as Young Writer's Workshop. It's awfully nice to go somewhere and hear what a cool/nice/unique person you are for three weeks straight. Perhaps this is why I was the one who organized Pilgrimmage this year. To prove that there's no change. These people will still consider me one of them. Even when I've supposedly sworn off writing, sworn off girls, sworn off Virginia. For one day, I'm supposed to forget JnJ and Liz and Alexis and Great Barrington. Maybe it's the fact that it's 12:30 and I made Sara a mixtape last night till 3am. Maybe it's T suggesting all this innuendo. And telling me to get over myself. Wow. That's not cool. I guess we're not supposed to take online journals seriously. Hillary brought it up, the whole "exhibitionist" factor. It's a Sunday. And I feel used. As stated before, it's been a LONG week. Obviously, it's a self-fulfilling proclamation: one claims no relationship, one feels alone. Done, and done. Don't mix tea and tongues.