the sad scale and the dial tone
on a sad scale from 1, (one = dropping the popsicle you just bought from the ice cream man on the pavement) to 10, (ten being your puppy getting run over right in front of your house, with you possibly still holding on to its leash)

i'd say the portion of packing where you take all your pictures and decorations off the walls qualifies as a solid 4, maybe a 4.5.(five is the end of the movie "my girl" where macaulay culkin is all dead and puffy cause he went back to get vada's mood ring)

it's as though i've removed my very essence from the rooms, sanitized them, the white overpowering any lingering briana vibes. that white is just so...final. i bet if i checked the label on that paint can it would say "semi-gloss final white". goddamn dutch boy.

i hate to type it, but part of me really dreads going back to new york. even back to pennsylvania. all of my relationships with people at the moment are somewhere on hold, that annoying classical music droning away in the background. i just get the feeling when i try to pick them back up, with some people, all i'll get is a dial tone. i hate that sound.

on the plus side, all i'll always have lame analogies and metaphors to keep me company.



"oh metaphor, who invented you?!"- eve