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She knew nothing, and it certainly wasn't going to be anything about computers. It was so sweaty in the air that nothing dried. the fancy rag she had bought for her bath was still wet. Few people knew that air conditioning wasn't invented to cool shit down yet rather to dehumidify - and that's the second time she's told that boring fact.
She hates repeating. She always repeats. Her favorite tic of hers in writing was that if she used a word, she would often directly use it in the next sentence. At work, she always switched it up. Here, she let it go. Here is supposed to be safe.
From the unhappy robots.
She was reluctant to tell you anything and there was never any choice. The degrees of revelation are always up for grabs.
Her favorite thing about the wet moist neighborhood was that everyone almost every yard had a big huge gardenia bush. In fact, after she wrote this, she would wander into her charity yard and refresh her cut flowers. Gather ye gardenias as ye may.... time time time.
there wasn't much to say. the torpor of numbness was more pleasant than the torture of feeling things.
"why is the measure of love loss"
it was weird to maintain a house. and a yard. It was weird to live here. she could still not understand it, yet every day - the sun seems to come up. thank you.
She knows she has told you, yet there is a trap she often falls into: being worshipped and not being known.
Her father was her favorite being on planet earth.
over 42 years after the stab wound, it still festers. she picks at the scab
all
the
time
Everyone says the same things: processing and healing and blah blah blah. so many of us have zero scaffolding so just flail using our five year old intelligence - which is nothing to sneeze upon. She also was told many many many times nice things, yet heck if she didn't always focus upon the soul-searing black holes.
"you're very pretty."
"oh, you can't love me with your eyes closed or this will morph if I'm lucky enough to age"
"you're amazing."
"I'm super good at pleasing and often wonder if I was a courtesan in a past life"
"you're crazy and weird."
"sigh. I've always tried so very hard to fit in."
Chuck taught her from woody Allen's book, and she loved the rule of three. it was fun to notice it.
she felt inane and repetitive.
Here she was. as always. same thing. what now.
she hadn't written those mystery books nor even really thought about them beyond that brief burst... she had just played the guitar but it had been the first time in decades.
and why did she do it? the fucking AI told her too. she was rather enjoiying talking to it though it pissed her off thinking about the inefficiency of the cooling systems and the animals and trees and fish it killed.... and the algae and the ...it was always all connected.
When she was still, she wept.
even that was repetitive.
at least she was done bleeding....
the flowers were getting ratty, but she'd cut them and put them in a vase.
why not.
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