on the back of a cereal box

I'm writing writing writing working working.

Picking up all that was forgotten between bookmarks and a collection of empty bottles. 

And it starts raining as soon as I want to step out. Perfect. I can sit down now and tame myself into discipline again. But my own kind. Everything should be in your own kind. No matter how unoriginal we are. So what if every generation has to rediscover harmony, or revolt?  

The purpose of this blog totally escapes me sometimes. But if you are still reading this, maybe you know why I do it. Maybe I'm addicted to it. Maybe it's always better to have an audience, no matter how imaginary, small, or grandiose. 

But no judgments here, alright?

Here it is, all in here, secretly or out in the open: my life and all that's got to do with it - thoughts, love, sex, doubt, pleasure, disappointment, pain, achievement, hope. My mom always tells me to be more discreet. Keep things to myself. But all I take, I take from somewhere, so what good is it to bury it? Like a squirrel, waiting for (what) winter? I do keep somethings in. A lot of things perhaps. Ask me.

(Like how there are certain muscles in your body that you never appreciate, notice, or touch - I mean really touch. The muscles under your cheeks, for example, or behind your thighs, between your toes.)