My boyfriend is in a band. They practice three hours a day. Or is that, they practice until three every day? I'm not really a numbers person. It's hard to convert from exact measurement to irregular reality. To paraphrase the log lady, it is hard to balance [odd numbers], but not impossible if you are able to divide. There are, of course, the pros and cons of division.
I feel like I don't have enough fun, and then I feel like I don't work hard enough. I could be feeling excess, but instead I see holes in everything. I keep saying "reality, reality" and every time, literally every time I bring it up it is with, figuratively, my tongue in my cheek because what is real? If I believed it, I could just say the thing without the word "reality" tagged on.
Sometimes (a lot of the time) I suspect I am full of shit and the internet is thisclose to calling me on it. I could be working harder and writing more clearly about what I experience but instead I claim the power of secrets and figurative storytelling and wander vaguely in the linguistic forest. I'm afraid that if I took the smoke and mirrors away there would be nothing left. Maybe I'm just writing about smoke and mirrors.