Stream of consciousness. No pressure – Faulkner, right? For inspiration, murdering my ears. God bless headache sufferers because I’m brand new to it and its misery. Newest song to binge relentlessly that one by Black Veil Brides.

Because in my soul I’m channeling an emo teenager full of angst -> stole that off of a tee-shirt that I must obviously now buy. So apt it makes me blush. Alone. Spotlit on this ugly kitchen table. Not conducive to writing anything but half-assed grocery lists. I’ve got this karaoke itch that’s driving me nuts. Because the very worst thing about losing my car – the buses are great, seriously – I have nowhere to rock out. Better than any therapy could hope to be, I’ve spent hours, HOURS stuck in traffic singing with Taylor Swift, belting out a variety of love stories. Crawling down the 405, who gives a shit, it’s fucking bliss. Now I have 3 too many roommates and thin walls and for a time I was all pleased with my genius life-hack  – which found me on the middle of an overpass over the 10 – the noise of a thousand cars drowns out the sound of my voice. But even the very few fellow pedestrians trickling by ruined it. I really don’t want to be the crazy lady singing to herself on the sidewalk trying to perfect a perplexing playlist.

*image not my own