I watched my first basketball game today.
You listened. You heard my words, processed them, and followed through.
That makes me happy.
That little bit gives me more hope than you would think it should. It just proves a point.
I can hear you mean it, it makes me close my eyes and smile.
. . .
I haven't got much to talk about, life's slow and I've been sleeping too much.
It's weird to have my dad call to check on me, and invite me to dinner. It's weird to have people call the house without a touch of drama.
And I think my taste for that has left me. Before, I got excited, a rush of energy would come flooding to me. Now I don't want any part of it. I just kind of want to lay low for a while, recover from all of my previous shit. I'd like some normal, with a side of peace.
. . .
That was the point to moving back home. No more sideways glances at me, or my car. No more false smiles, no more staring. No more snow, scraping, or freezing.
. . .
I really wanted to take it easy, get a cheese job, and slack. But I've found living here a little annoying, and I miss my privacy and space. Making pizza will be my last shot, if I can't find a job here, I'll be slinging dough around the corner.
I think I'm done with stressing. Today.