the happy life doesn't make a good story

somewhere along the line i became a bad person to have as a correspondent. possibly, because i've found myself more (many times over) interested in other people's words than my own.

my mom:
Vickie,

Can you save the plastic paddings inside the package I sent you. It may be useful for future use.
Talk to you later.


Mom

my dad (after i sent him a link about the tallest building in the world):
Good. At least Taiwan has one thing which is number 1 in the world. I happen
to be at work. Hopefully I don't have to work on weekend in a couple of
weeks.

emily:
I had no Cause to be awake--
My Best--was gone to sleep--

you, a random boy and conor:
marcella has this crazy friend named dylan, from portuguese class. (he spent senior year of high school as an exchange student in brazil, without speaking the language). he can be kind of, intense. anyway, he knocks on the door today. and with real wide eyes, you know how conor does in pictures sometimes, says, you like bright eyes? me, yeah. then starts talking really quickly about this political thing he's campaigning for, and a lecture series and registering to vote or something. right before he leaves though he says, all serious and monotone, i'm just the medicine you take when you're sick. you get well and that's it. i'm put back on the shelf in your mirror.

god jessica i just want to read for the rest of my life and maybe write some of my thoughts about language and art and i don't know. what it's like to be human and feel strange, that the world is strange too, so i can read them later but not do anything big at all, not really effect any change. sometimes when i read over my own writing all that comes to mind is, oh.

(remember, "it's a wonderful life, if you can find it"?)