Tick Tock Tick.

I'm gnawing at my finger-nail polish though I just applied it today. Bits of "Tequila Sunrise" chip away and coat my teeth, my gums, my lips, my hair, the table. Thoughts of memories past, I can't help but mention them everyday. Where is this charming experience that I am supposed to be welcoming right now? All I can do is stare at my blank notebook, shouting at me so blatantly about the issues in Greenwich that I'm supposed to be interpreting. There is a special science and math to being so unproductive and average. If I focus hard enough I can appease my brain with ghosts of people and their fleeting love but even as hours tick away, the notebook remains blank. What am I supposed to fill it with? I could write 23 neatly double-spaced pages in 12-point Times New Roman about my turbulence, I wouldn't even need to use Arial to fill the space. But the fact that a little boy was plastered across the pavement in Chinatown by a speeding cab is not controversial to me. I'm only concerned about the fact that I will not get my new dress in time so I can be physically ironic because I'm wearing a sundress during the winter. Nicotine has successfully gotten a hold of me, pinned me down, and stapled my eyes open. I need more noise, I need more action, I want to feel alive. Everyday is mundane, the hours tick away, but that's probably because I don't see the light of day. I gotta move.