Just took a life-expectancy calculator quiz for a poetry assignment and found that, if all my habits and behaviors and risks stay constant, I've got another sixty-two years in me. I suppose I should want more than that, but really? I'm twenty, and I'm already overwhelmed when I review my history, so I'm not going to gripe about another sixty-two. That said, I could start taking a multi-vitamin without shaking my life up too much. It's not like anything will ever be enough for me, anyhow - I mean, it can be 'enough' in that I'm happy, satiated, not wanting something different, but I don't see myself ever finding a good stopping point.
The weird thing is that I had to take that quiz for the sake of a poetry assignment that I am not entirely enthused about. We'll see how it works out - I'm currently stuck on a Lori story, and you all know my priorities. Except that the story has taken a backseat to Valentine's Day, which is not generally indicative of my priorities, but making a lovey-dovey mix CD for someone who doesn't love pop music isn't easy work. Honestly.
When people fuck you over, and understand that, yes, they fucked you over, they should stop trying to contact you at that point. And by 'you,' I mean 'me.' And by 'people,' I mean - well, it's not particularly hard to guess, is it? Didn't think so.
Sixty-two years! What am I going to do with all that time? I want cats and city lights and carrying kids to bed, tall shelves of books organized my way and plants on windowsills and stacks of photo albums and lamps that give off warm yellow light and maybe even a Hanson concert, if I really do it up big. These are things I hope for, might even have someday, but right now? I'm lucky just to be typing this between assignments, to have a long walk around campus during which I can call Young Steven, to have a warm room (maybe even warm arms) to return to once I'm off work for the night. Plus, I received a Valentine from my grandma today, sealed with kitten stickers, so I really am doing all right, it seems. Here's to eighty-two.
The weird thing is that I had to take that quiz for the sake of a poetry assignment that I am not entirely enthused about. We'll see how it works out - I'm currently stuck on a Lori story, and you all know my priorities. Except that the story has taken a backseat to Valentine's Day, which is not generally indicative of my priorities, but making a lovey-dovey mix CD for someone who doesn't love pop music isn't easy work. Honestly.
When people fuck you over, and understand that, yes, they fucked you over, they should stop trying to contact you at that point. And by 'you,' I mean 'me.' And by 'people,' I mean - well, it's not particularly hard to guess, is it? Didn't think so.
Sixty-two years! What am I going to do with all that time? I want cats and city lights and carrying kids to bed, tall shelves of books organized my way and plants on windowsills and stacks of photo albums and lamps that give off warm yellow light and maybe even a Hanson concert, if I really do it up big. These are things I hope for, might even have someday, but right now? I'm lucky just to be typing this between assignments, to have a long walk around campus during which I can call Young Steven, to have a warm room (maybe even warm arms) to return to once I'm off work for the night. Plus, I received a Valentine from my grandma today, sealed with kitten stickers, so I really am doing all right, it seems. Here's to eighty-two.
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