tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80561782011-04-21T21:46:38.065-07:00My most prolific period of writing was in high school, writing notes to keep myself from being bored to the point of zombification. I miss those days.Heathernoreply@blogger.comBlogger31100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056178.post-1096461440189528462004-09-29T05:32:00.000-07:002004-09-29T05:37:20.190-07:00

I love you dearly. Mainly because you are cheap and you can live a long and healthy life in the bottom of the refridgerator, but also because I can chop you up and put you in anything and you will make it delicious. For example, last night when I was attempting to make my oh-god-is-it-payday-yet dinner, I used you to liven up my otherwise bland pasta-and-the-tiny-bit-of-sauce-left-in-the-jar meal

Heathernoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056178.post-1094878218187946132004-09-10T21:26:00.000-07:002004-09-10T21:50:18.186-07:00

It's been a hard week. A lonely cigarettes, long phone calls during peak hours, too much tv, lost, over-worked week. I need a hug, direction, clean dishes, my porch, friends who understand I'm needy and codependent, more coffee in the mornings, and a plan. If any of that can be helped, I'd appreciate it. And if not, it's cool. Help my mom pass her tests in the morning, and my sister remember

Heathernoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056178.post-1094523031584893402004-09-06T19:07:00.000-07:002004-09-06T19:10:31.583-07:00

It scares me the way I watch you. The way you look at frogs. The sound the frog made when it fell from the roof above the balcony. The way you crouched beside me while we waited for it to move, to come back to life, to be okay because we were both (even if only momentarily) in love with that frog. And that meant something. I want more frogs. More of you. More times when you think a frog is a

Heathernoreply@blogger.com3