(This is intentionally vague, just like old times. None of it is about you. Maybe some of it is, but not the first bit.)
I miss my friends but I don't know if I can trust them. I liked being understood. For a minute there, I was understood. For the first time, I was understood. She understood me. I think. I don't. I look at it with a questioning eye. I don't remember how it started but when it did it felt off. I went with it anyway. I probably did not come across as insensitive as I said I was coming across. It brought me back to the primordial teenage fear of other people, like some shit J.D. Salinger would have written. I never work fast enough, nobody here does. That's why we're here/why we shouldn't have ever thought about going here. I wonder why she was so open. I got the feeling it wouldn't have mattered who I was, which made it feel wrong. Not for me, but for her. The snow has sunken the earth into the night of the year. The Christmas lights are the new stars. I am starting to love this town, but in the back of my mind, I know I will leave it some day, which has to be some kind of hilariously on-the-nose metaphor. What makes a place cooler than its people? I feel the teenagers don't know how to define why their hometown supposedly sucks. What else is out there? What are you looking for? I am a kid again. I am just like a kid again. I am a punk nerd again. I bomb the walls of my consciousness every school night, tired the next morning, tagged with their dreams for the rest of my life. I believe in things/I believe in nothing. I will remain tireless/I am forever too groggy to live. I'm scared like a kid, but maybe not for you/only for you. Don't fucking diagnose me, asshole. I am not like anybody. I hold this town down like a badgeless journalist. I'm better than ever. I feel it more, though. I never stop feeling. My throat burns and I am sick with love for my surroundings. I smell the dog poop as I scoop it up with a doggy bag, then standing upright, talking to myself, pretending I'm being photographed. The prairies are the unforgetting ocean. You may forget for a little while, but it won't, and soon you won't, either. My tweets are about old divorced Irish-Catholic Bostonian men, dogs, ducks, dragons, and the part of me that only speaks in jokes.
