December 12th. Thoughts in my stomach.

It's 5 am. I've been up for the last hour, wasting time, because nothing seems immediate yet. I'm listening to Bobcaygeon on repeat. I know you're not crazy about it but it fucks me up something special; I always thought stuff like "in the middle of that riot / couldn't get you off my mind" was kind of the epitome of love. Well, here I am. So much for the closet; it can have my coat but not my status as romantic.

It's weird how my aptitude for putting off work has worsened as I've grown older. There was always this sense, when I was in high school, that putting things off was okay, because I always got them done somehow on time in the end. "It's okay," I'd tell my mom, "it's not going to not get done." And it always did. But every little instance of pushing it too far sets a precedent, and pretty soon you think nothing of staying up until 7 or 8, just waiting for the urge to strike, and you fall asleep with all the bright lights in your apartment on, steadfastly convinced that you'll start working on your paper any minute now. I guess something in my brain/fingers just lacks that killer instinct.

I guess this is why I prefer exams to papers. There's less leeway. The difference between handing a paper in a day late and not doing an exam is too much for me to blow off showing up at a certain time to a certain place with a handful of pens and a stomach full of knots, ready to fill up this booklet or that booklet with all my empty, stupid thoughts. I miss simplicity, I guess. I remember Grade 10 was all about straight-up facts. That was my jam. I know what chattel means, I know what the tallest peak in Antarctica is, and so on, and so on. I guess it's just a learning process.

"And it was in Bobcaygeon / that I saw the constellations / reveal themselves / one star at a time."

I can't wait until you wake up, light in the curtains, tired smile on your lips, all things shining. We won't have much time together but every moment feels exciting in ways I won't bother trying to explain here. I love you.

December 4th. The thought thickens.

It's 7:26 ante-meridian. Blood is thicker than water; and I'd want you all around even if you had cancers. But it ain't all jugs of orange juice, apple-cider, suicide doors. There's more to it than they act.

Stuck here where I sit with the violins and the silence, blotting my ears against the sheet-sirens and the violence of the ink-blood final fantasy mental images, I get nothing done except two (2) times myself. A doppelgänger, if you will.

And the noel-halo? It's over an A this time. But I don't believe in angels, only angles, and from this one the three-point-whatever buzzer-beater's fading fast. Maybe I just have the wrong haircut. I've seen leakings of the future through the seams in my fingers. It's not pretty, three times fast.

Forward, we (I) march, though, then. Forward, onwards, upwards. The fence is up, my tongue is loaded, six-shooter style, with offensive ways to make a mark, and in nets: a scary price to pay for my missed deeds.

So I'll go then, for my refrigerator's sake, and buy off a monster or two; but not more. These days my wallet's as thick as my torso. Which is understandable, maybe; I just might have a rib missing.