6/11/13. dear elsie.

      I don't know much anymore, Els.  I just can't reciprocate the way, you know, I'm expected to.  Or the way I think I'm expected to.  I think I can, but it's more of a matter of actually executing.  Speaking out, yeah?  Wish I was Irish.  You had some Irish blood, didn't you?  But... every time I get, you know, close, I just sort of... stop working.  Working the right way.  It's really annoying.  I think she thinks I hate her, really. Or am sort of ambivalent, is that the word?  I'm not.  I don't hate her.  I really, you know... I really enjoy time with her.  But I... ugh.  This is awful.  This whole thing is awful, putting vocal noises into writing is awful, I've got an awful procrastination tool right now which I really don't need.  It's all awful.  Just, bah.
      Well, anyway, I met a man today, his name I can't recall because I never asked for it, but I loved his hair.  It was awesome.  Indescribably awesome.  How indescribably awesome?  I'm having a hard time describing it.  He was cool.  I have sweaty wrists, what's up with that?  Oh, I got a haircut.

      I can't decide whether to tear my whole work apart or just half-ass it the whole way, or week, now it is. And you know my new justification for using the word ass?  It's not original.  If God can use Balaam's ass, he can use yours too.  Quite enjoyable, mmm?  I don't know, I just... can't figure out where to go with life.  I hate being so young.  It's a bother.  That haircut?  It was avant-garde by my mum's standards.  Not mine.  I wanted to shave the whole thing off.  Silly delusion, suppose.
      Indubitably, I just had start my new paragraph off with a razzle-dazzle word.  You know what I mean?  Can't be using "I" and "And" and all that.  I think I'm finished.  Yah.  I didn't spill anything.

Signed:

Eisle

For:

elsie, 1913 to 1964.