I have slept through this last week and a half. I know I've had a cold, but I can't help but feel as if I wasted that time.
Summer is almost over. For the longest time, I couldn't wait for it to be, but obviously I'd go back on that once I finally got through most of it. That's usually how it goes. At least I'll be doing a lot more in the next couple of months with college and all. But it still kind of sucks. As much as I couldn't be more glad it's all over, a part of me misses my dumb lost youth. I miss my friends then and the summers we used to have. The past will never change, but I still can, so I guess that's really the only thing worth getting hung up on. I'll enjoy whatever I have left while it lasts.
My point is is that in the haze of being stuffed up, I haven't really thought about or done anything. So, this shit is going to be a little dry, but I'll try my best to churn something out worthwhile.
ALSO! I like your idea about going back to when these were vague, so I'll follow suit.
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He looks like a mean kid, the kind to stomp on another until they cry, but he's a year away from being a legal adult. His eyes piss me off. They make his face look like he's constantly just shit himself and trying the ignore the turtlehead sloshing around his boxers. They're droopy and bitter like a child, but I say that without any affection. I mean it in the most animal sense of the word: they make him look simple and small. His face sinks with the slant of his eyes, the flakes of his attitude piling up at the bottom where his chin is. The bitterness that paints his face is obviously real, but it carries no vigor to what it suggests nor depth to what that means. Anything he could be mad about wouldn't really truly mean all that much, and he doesn't care that it wouldn't. That's why he can be so cruel.
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No town is without a bar scene.
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I think it's cool how you have your own meaning for "There's no rewards, only good calls". I like when people talk my stuff and make it their own. I also like that you remembered I wrote that.
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I'm going to Vancouver next week which I'm excited about. Originally we had planned a full roadtrip through B.C., but the fires have left the highways clogged with all the evacuations and all the towns in between choked in smoke. It wouldn't be worth it. So we're flying just to Van, which will be kind of weird for obvious reasons. I'm glad we're going somewhere at least. We're gonna see my aunt and kayak and shit. I'll definitely have something to write home about then.
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There is a balloon inside my head that has gotten very big. Sometimes it doesn't give the others that much room in there, which I feel bad about, but a part of me doesn't mind. I love the balloon. I'm glad it's there for me, but I'm almost afraid of it getting too much and taking me away. A part of me wants it to, though. A part of me can't imagine it not.
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The owl had eyes like empty marbles. It being dead, they almost didn't look animal. Having never seen the eyes alive made it easier to convince myself that they had never been alive at all, as if they were the plastic painted orbs that belonged to some plump feathered toy somebody had chucked out of their window while driving by. I was slightly hung up on the uneasiness I felt over not feeling uneasy at all. Looking st the corpse of the thing I was sure at the time I had just killed didn't help that. I only knew it was dead, but I couldn't feel it. I wasn't indifferent to it though, I just wasn't sick about it. I thought the worst of myself, but I didn't give it much time. I knew I had things to do.
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Confusion is wasted on the confused.
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There was a handful of huge thunderstorms with tore through Edmonton and Calgary for a few days, during which all the smoke seemed to have been pushed out of central AB, clearing out the sky. Those were incredibly pretty days. It's so strange to see everything illuminated by the sun after it has been obstructed for over a month. You quickly forget everything had colour and depth, and you forget how much you needed it. But the smoke is back now, and probably for good.
