attack of the teenage hormone-infested 80 ft octopus

Currently listening to: "Basique"- Little People
issssaJAM.

My least favorite time of the week is on Mondays and Wednesdays, from 11:50 am-12:30 pm. It is the idle 40 minutes I have to kill between my Anthropology and Psychology classes. 40 minutes is the perfect amount of time to do absolutely nothing.

The following is an inner monologue that I have decided to document.

...So I drive aimlessly through the blue-grey, trying to find music to propel me, to be my engine, until I have to return to LMC's bland, white, windowless classrooms and toilets that flush when you're not ready for them to... and when it does this you make a Jim Halpert face but no one is watching you because you're enclosed in a stall that's kind of like your mind.
Small and cramped and stuffy.
Occasionally smells of excrement.
Sometimes deafening with the shuffles of zippers (the opening and closing of new and old thoughts), sinks (washing myself of something...cleansing), and crumpling paper towels (disposable things, thoughts that are underdeveloped, thoughts that I dismiss).
Other times, incredibly silent. Like you're the only person on campus who has ever had to go pee in the history of urination. Like you're the only person who thinks in the history of brains.

YES. IT'S BACK.

Maybe for this fleeting moment, but it's here. Run with it. Sail with it. Open the masts of your mind, self, and let small breezes of interaction and tangents lead you every which way until your mind-your hand-cramps. Yes, it may become still again. But PATIENCE, it is a virtue. Sure, it's frustrating. Cry. Go ahead. Let your best friend paint your nails Christmas colors in May and eat some waffles and scream and contemplate cutting off all your hair that hangs heavy on your head, suffocating your neck like a python. And sleep. Write about how you hate to write sometimes and how you're shitty at it most of the time, but how you must keep the promise you have made to yourself.
Remind yourself.
Tell yourself that you are a silly girl and that you're not going to die if you have a fleeting thought that what you do, what you feel, has no direction.
Direction is self-created. W R I T E
Soon your words will turn into something. Usable, or not. You will spin straw into gold eventually. And the birds will sing and your ink will run out and you will soon feel whole again.