I don't like: pens that are too thin, keyboards that are virtual, fevers, the high cost of modern beauty, work, semantics, pressure and more things, too. Oh yeah ... rice cakes, either. I hear their cries like a phantom limb and I am never not a mother. But I am the child now, who needs taking care of, looked after, attended to. It isn't hard for me to switch roles; I am due. To suffer so bad you don't even remember that you're suffering softens the blackened hole where the heart should be of even the most hardened surgeon. I'm sure there's a diagnosis for it, consult your pocket DSM. Or whatever. I'm tired. I miss my mom. I wish I could have things my way. I wish I didn't have to grow up. Some day, I will have all of the art hanged and pictures framed, but for now, we make due. Funny pair we make, us two, accelerated and arrested. But I never minded or even thought about it much, because we fucking catalyze when we're together, equation successfully balanced. Crazy friends are good and crazy husbands are bad, and I wonder if I can call in sick? I never liked easter too much anyway, except for the weather and the lighter-later nights and its proximity to summer. Be glad when this is all over. See you on the other side, Digitalia.

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