Struggling to find a comfortable place. Where I'm not crawling out of my skin, bleeding fingers, spring cliche s. Leaning on the writing. Putting out energy. Lack of cannabination. Not feeling overly guilty about withdrawing from society. Not transcribing finch brood. Anti social. Imminent death syndrome. It puts us all in an awkward position. Gotta keep typing taping tapping sweeping swiping anything, testing out the brave little seed of auto correct growing stronger and slicker by the semester, and suggesting stuff that is cool all the time. Could find a better synonym for that if I tried. But, waiting, waiting waiting_ for malapropriate. Mutually beneficial I suppose. Chill axy finch vibe. Casj. Squirming for comfort like a selfish tree seed.

Spring cliches. How lovely. And I don't have to apologize for the word. It's a lovely word. For lovely people. For lovely Briar. She was lovely. I loved her. It's hard to love her these days when it's 100% unrequited. And I hardly try. But even so, some seeps through. She was lovely and sexy and cute, so cute when we were talking about, I don't even remember, but it was the idea of parodying nursery rhymes and replacing the original content with... something. And I went straight to sex, atypical of me - like the friends we were with. And she went to violence. Like the typical me would have. Ah, my little Arya. I still want to hug her so tightly for that. Can't explain why, but I know why, and will probably remember. I wished I'd hugged her in that moment. It was her realizing her error, of not giving the expected pseudo-"sophisticated" "adult" fill-in-the-blank joke - and then her feeling embarrassed and bashful, like I know so well, how I feel so much of the time. Weird bonds we had that I could never really articulate. Too bad we didn't work. And now there's nothing but this.