There should probably be a disclaimer here, but I can't remember if I've started another post with one before already so I should maybe take the safe path and high road (yes, I know that isn't the typical use of the 'high road' but I consider it to also mean overpasses/footbridges, which really are safe road-crossing fingydings, all up up and away from speeding cars). So no disclaimer then.
Summer classes are having a strange effect on me: I am forgetting how to speak. I can still talk, oh yes, don't worry. My flimsy hold on language isn't going anywhere. I can recite in class and blog and text and write love letters. But I'm falling out of practice in the art of the conversation, not that I was ever much of an artist (too many, umms, wows, pauses, gosh, obscenities, oh oh oh's, and not-funny type jokes). But because of my schedule which fits none of my friend's schedule's, I really don't have anyone to regularly talk or hang out with. Combine this with my situation of no roommaties and wow look at that. It's 8 oclock at night and I think the last person I talk to was the cashier lady when I bought my lunch. Though, of course that's not exactly the case everyday, considering it's 7:44 in the morning right now and I'm not really a lady who lunches.
Positive side: I have cut back on some terrible vices and ingestions, like alcohol and snack time. I have so much time to exercise, I'm so deliriously happy. While stranded, at least I have with me a level of contact with the outside world, a means to make friends on new islands, and no pressure to eat eat eat and become fat fat fatter. It's a nice cool feeling against my palm, made by the reigns to my own freaking life, huzzah. Though secretly, and I hate to admit it, I miss home and the beach whenever and my mom asking me again and again and again and not ever at meal times, if I am hungry and bringing me food despite my actual answer and then me hiding it and throwing it away. Nothing quite like home, it is where the heart is after all. So despite the thump-thumping I feel in my chest, my blood pump must still be in Davao, in a ugly purple house with my mother and my cat. If that is my home. I hate growing up. I hate growing.
Despite all this free time, I haven't been writing at all. Oh okay, sure, my wrist still remembers the Roman alphabet since it is always flicking and looping and sliding from left to right as I write my notes in class, everyday, 10:30-3. But I haven't written anything about me, my life, something that people might read when I am dead, Lost Treasure/Indiana Jones-style, searching for clues. Why is she gone? Why did she do it? Was it planned?
My life is one not worth writing down, but since blogs carry significantly less weight and cost than sheets of paper, I feel I'm insulting the universe less with every crap character. Still, I wish I had something terrible and offensive to be excited about. I'm growing sick and tired of the sound my body makes against knuckles. One can only hear hollow sounds so much before they open the box and shove something in to muffle the echoes.