My fingers are burning from scooping scalding hot food indirectly onto them. I've figured out how to rock a baseball cap. Thank goodness for work this week. Thank goodness for busy hands and awkwardness. I'd rather learn Spanish words for dishes, vegetarian, and cold, than face reality.
I'm running on fumes, listening to Patrick Wolf with my headphones on, wrapped up in my sweatshirt. Still pushing, still trying.
"I saw you fall down the stairs this morning."
"Shit, I thought I got out clean," I responded. Strangers in the dining hall.
My Dear London, Goodnight.
No comments:
Post a Comment