Well, you're here, I'm hoping my thoughts will gain traction with you. Keep reading.

I'm frankly having a hard time putting words here. I keep getting distracted by thoughts of chicken cutlets, over caffeination, Erotic Probiotic (2)! -look it up, and my chilly feet on the tile floor. I know what I want to say, but the words aren't flourishing like they usually do. They aren't catapulting from my brain to my fingers as quickly as I'd like, but don't worry- I'll get to a point eventually. I'm hungry but I keep opening the fridge, looking inside, not finding anything appetizing, and closing the door in a cycle every 20 minutes or so (metaphorically speaking).

Things I'm not: video game, nerd, anime trad wife of your dreams. Mutual interests are important, and I don't want to disappoint anyone, or waste time.

Let me try something, I'm going to just "go" and see what comes out. It's January, almost the end, it's my least favorite month of the year, as if that's hardly an original thought. I'm tired of seeing the fog condense on my windows, it makes it look cold on the inside even though it's not. My plants aren't having a good time, my poor fingers and toes aren't haven't a good time.

I just moved back to the East from Portland, OR about a month ago, maybe 6 weeks now. I quit a job that I loved because I wanted to come home, and now I'm quite understimulated. I've been reading now more than ever, which feels really great. I'm trying to get into Proust as I've been told that my writing comes off Proustian but I'd like to understand what that means. I've never read Proust until now. Maybe he and I were friends in a past life. I a young Frenchman writing in a cafe, cigarette in one hand, sooted pages of prose under my nose. Hey Proust! Read this paragraph for me would ya?! En Francais, of course. Walden is there too for some reason. He got tired of his pond, hopped on a plane, and came to Paris, probably his longing for a baguette as motivation.

I feel I'm getting to the point of this where some of you have checked out, will she ever talk about herself? If you're bored, you and I will not get along. I like to wax poetic, ramble and spout thoughts that take a few moments to collect and review. I want to talk about trauma, trials. I want to clean out the attic that holds your memories, and mine. Sneezing the cobwebs out of our noses, and moving into the house of the soul. I'm looking for someone who'll ask about me, take time and patience to understand who I am, truly madly deeply (Savage Garden anyone?).

Let's trade Spotify playlists curated exactly for one another. Tell me your favorite 20 songs in the universe. Go on and on about your vinyl collection....ok I'll go on and on and MY vinyl collection. Let's listen to full albums together and pretend we're Pitchfork reviewers. Let's say "hey, I like you" and not be afraid of that. Let's tell each other about how we dream to spend a Sunday together. Will you go to the thrift store with me after brunch? Will you let the dog sleep in the bed? How do you create love? What erotic thoughts do you have? How do you feel about lava lamps and the color dark green?

Anywhere/Online/Whatever Universe. Just reach me

Your writer here:

https://imgur.com/2p1mRzF

https://imgur.com/1Nn3TeT

and her familiar

https://imgur.com/FBysb5w

https://imgur.com/2blX17o

Let's get started, shall we?

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