Sometimes

Sometimes you don't write/call/text/IM/stop by/say hi, because you've been busy—as foster mom would say—having a life. Sometimes you don't have much to say. Sometimes you're in a foul mood and don't want to bring it to anyone else. Sometimes you don't care about mandates and going forward at all. Sometimes you just want to stew in the present—and maybe a little in the past—to remind yourself that there is still some major suckage going on. Sometimes reading someone else's writing is way more gratifying than conjuring up your own (see Perry, Michael). Sometimes you have to think about the play you went to or the movie you saw or the novel you read and wonder why the bad behavior of others counts as entertainment. Sometimes you go for a walk and wonder when real life is going to begin, and then realize oh my god it already has and this is it. Sometimes you listen to sublime music and realize you can do that, too. Sometimes you look at someone and think, really? Sometimes the rainbow isn't enough, and besides, you're not a colored girl. Sometimes your hands are in the dirt and it's warm and moist in a good way. Sometimes the suburbs seem fine. Sometimes having something taken away helps you focus on more important things—like cheese. Sometimes getting there is less than half the fun.