And I know why.
It's because what makes my life interesting are the things I don't want to talk about. Lately, anyway, that's what's making my summer worth living through.
I don't mean to leave such a beg for attention, but I still feel a bit sore. I don't want to say anything too quickly. Don't want to speak too soon. But I've got to say something so I can stop feeling terrible about my own writing.
My parents have been in a rough spot since last night, and... well, I'm not the kind of kid who would be especially broken up about it if my parents ended up getting a divorce. Sometimes it feels like we're a single-parent household already. Sometimes it doesn't, and I do enjoy my dad's presence and what he does for us, but I'm not devastated by their bickering.
Though it is getting more serious than it ever has been before. I've never seen them fight like this. They fought for a long time, and both of them came in to try and talk to me once it had partially blown over. I don't know what's going to happen. Neither do they.
But I think this is what's interrupting my equilibrium. I'm not upset, necessarily, I think it's just that the conflict of it all is making me a little on edge. I don't like hearing them fight, even when all they're doing is talking in fast, hushed tones. I don't like them trying to talk to me about it. And it's hard to write. Hard to get out the little happy songs I like to write, and the little rapid-fire poems I read at Marmalade on Tuesday nights. I just don't know anymore.
I don't want to talk to anyone about it. And I especially don't want to sound like I'm whining about my troubles, but seriously, that's what's up with me. And if all I write for the next little bit is "poop!" and "vagina!" at least you'll know why.
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