i can't quite commit to the vein of nihilism that allows me not to feel bad when i make fun of someone for having triangle fingers. or when i unabashedly admit that i am hot and this is not a compliment, but merely a pathetic observation. just when i think that not a damn bit of it really matters, a series of events reminds me that it does.
in ninth grade geometry i almost learned proofs.
it's like i told mr. roberts.
i just know... why do i have to explain it?
he was right though.
we have to explain, sometimes.
proof that i can do this:
the full moon and an overpass
the soft sound of dust on vinyl
red and not white
a series of sevens
a squirrel on a fence
moving the cat
mementos on the floor
the eighth mile in an 11 mile run
the truth when we become tired
damn it janet.
none of these proofs make any sense.
no wonder i got a D in geometry.
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