Freewrite

Br R T Y U G The Mystifying Oracle

“These aint no ordinary lyrics man, this is your Obituary”

O-bitch-uary

Elliot’s not dead, he’s in Pawtucket, and he’s recovering, he is, or at least the internet says so. “Master El.” The internet says so. I know we remember the things we say, the things the other person says. I know you remember me because you ask questions later on that show you still remember, and it means you still think about me, when I’m not there.

I know Adam loves me because he tells me so, but also I know this because he tries to cheer me up when I’m obviously mad [at him], and he says my name in a sing-songy voice when he nuzzles me [while i'm still mad]. I am not sure what it means that I think about other people sometimes. It might be normal. Normal, that is, it might be acceptable for a healthy romantic relationship. Romantic? Scratch that, it doesn’t have to be romantic to be healthy and beneficial.

I need my paycheck; I hope it’s A) paid with the proper wage rate, and B) padded with the amount missing from last time. Don’t rip me off. I work.

Sometimes I want to be a “foxy lady” again. For the fun of it, for the fun in it. I’ve almost forgotten the fun of it, and what it’s like, and I can’t believe I don’t remember, because it hasn’t been very long. I haven’t called Sydney yet. I’m the worst when it comes to “keeping in touch” and “calling.”

People should not keep in touch. People should go with the flow.

I just got a text message and I think it’s from Adam, and the suspense is too strong to keep me away any longer.