I woke up today with this weird desire to write.
It’s my last day as a teenager today. I can’t decide if that’s
a significant milestone in my life. But I guess it means I’ve grown up a
little. What really changed over the past few years?
I moved to a different city. Alone.
My hair grew a couple of inches longer.
I stopped painting.
I like peanut butter now.
I have a new piercing.
I don’t wear glasses anymore.
I write in black ink.
The constants?
My wardrobe is predominantly black.
I like solitude.
I love retro music.
Still have minor OCD issues.
Still love sleeping all the time.
Love the cold. Love winter. Love December
And this is a really random unnecessary list.
Some day, maybe tomorrow, or a while after; I’ll read this
and roll my eyes and laugh at how silly I was being. But honestly, it’s just
the weather. The cold makes me a little numb and slightly less sane.
Okay. I’m going to build a cocoon with my blankets and
hibernate now.
Such weird whim, this isn’t even called writing.
