Would You Like to Listen?

I haven’t been on here in forever. I’ve got so much to say. Would you like to listen? It’ll be kind of funny, I promise.

I worry too much.

Really, I do. Since the day I was born, I’ve been worrying to some degree. Maybe there’s nothing inherently wrong with always having a low hum of thoughts slowly making their way through your body: down through your aching legs to your toes, and back up to your head, and then swirling around in your abdomen and chest.

I’ve known nothing other than that, but I guess I’m doing just fine, so again… Maybe that’s okay.

It gets in the way, this stream of bullshit. My work doesn’t get done in a timely manner and my head fogs up and I can’t think straight. I wonder if people get annoyed by how much I talk about thisĀ fascinating ADD of mine.

BUT, I must talk about things! If I never allow myself to speak, how will I grow? I’m not looking for sympathy. I can handle things on my own, mostly. What I’m looking for is relief and the excitement that comes with processing thoughts and speaking out loud. (Or, in this case, writing things down on the Internet.)

Boy, that was a long introduction. I haven’t written anything longer than a couple of sentences in a while, so I’m testing things out again. Forgive me for the… embellished and redundant nature of this post so far.

Cut the shit, Maggs. Just say what you wanted to say.

So here, folks, from a previously written, but never-published blog post, are the heavily edited, (yet probably mistake-ridden) inner ramblings of my wildly disorganized teenage head:

“HOW am I supposed to be able to hold down a job in the future? I can barely remember to take the medicines that help me sit still for more than 15 minutes and not look like a nervous wreck all the time. Do employers care if you use the bathroom every 45 minutes? I get bored. I like to look at myself in the mirror a lot. Actually, who cares: if you hire me, that probably means you like me, and you can’t get mad at someone you like.

(Shit, it would be awesome if that were true.)

Am I going to learn how to drive? I get mistaken for a college student and I can’t even drive. Does that make me slow? Someone told me once that it’s okay that I’m a “late bloomer.” But upon learning I hadn’t yet received my license and driven myself all over my stupidly manicured city, they revoked their statement and said, ‘Sweetie, that’s really not something you should wait on.’ I had to fight back the urge to punch her in her close-minded little throat.

Can you excuse me for a minute? I need to think.

You know what, lady? I’ll learn when I get there. I’ll finish my work and go to bed. I’ll do whatever it takes to help me get the things done that I need to get done. And I do that already! I tire easily and I could maybe not use the Internet so much for looking at dog pictures and speaking to kindly internet friends, but I get shit done. Maybe not at YOUR pace, but I ignore the hum of thoughts most of the time and accomplish my tasks. Not always on time, but again, it gets done.

Look at that!

I just solved my own problems.

And that, folks, is what happens every 10 minutes in my brain. It’s one thing to the next. One worrisome notion to another, solved.”

Holy shit, that was weird. Welcome back, kiddo.

I’m going to have a good week.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eleana

I long for the summertime.

I wait, without patience
For a time when my skin
Is again dark and dirty.

What is more pleasuring
Than warmth
Enveloping one’s entire body
And the trees breathing
The same hot air that you do?

Little – very little.

The sun has left us.
She is gone;
and my body
aches because of this.

What from darkness is made?
Little – very little.

I long for the summertime.