Everything is worth it if you make it worth it.
My new job depresses me, when I let it. Everyday I bring ridiculously particular orders to hoards of cranky former doctors/lawyers/otherwise-rich people who can no longer live their lives the way they want to. They're stuck in this retirement home, they can no longer drive themselves, travel, go on outings, in some cases even bathe themselves or breathe without a machine. Every day they get more and more depressed, they take it out on me and it's a normal part of my routine to get lectured. After all, how dare I bring them their soup and entree at the same time! Obviously it's going to get cold, what was I thinking? I must take it back immediately and wait exactly ten minutes before returning it to them. And what on earth have I done to my fingernails? Gray nail polish? It makes them look like they are rotting!
My favorite is the mousy old lady that sits at the corner table by herself. She requires breathing tubes, and her vocal chords don't work anymore. She whispers. Sometimes she uses a pen and paper. Yesterday she motioned for me to come over to her table. I came over thinking she would want coffee or for me to cut up her food again. She whispered "thank you for being kind." So I brought her extra ice cream.

I had a dream the other night that I knew I was dying. The FIRST thing I felt I needed to do in this dream to prepare for this was to go through my notebook and rip up all the pages of things I didn't want people to know. I pictured my room, empty of life. My parents were solemnly going through my belongings, struggling with the decision of whether or not to read my notebook. They felt guilty, but decided to read it anyway because they missed me and it was the closest thing to having a conversation with me that they could find. I couldn't bear the thought of some of these pages being seen by their eyes. I immediately jumped up from my bed in a panic and rifled through my bag until I held the beloved little black book in my hands, and mercilessly began to destroy entire groups of pages. I was vaguely aware of doing this, but in my dreamlike state I felt like that action was reversible and all of the pages could be recovered.
You can imagine my sadness when I woke up in the morning, tired from my sleepwalking, and my trash can was filled with piles of meticulously ruined pages. In a way I'm really sad about this. I don't write anything unless I am afraid of forgetting it. Even if it's not a good memory and it's not pleasant for me to read, I keep it there because I feel like it taught me a vital lesson that will (hopefully) save me from experiencing similar things again.
But in another odd way, I feel lighter. If I did this in my sleep, obviously I didn't want what I ripped up to be associated with me. I was terrified of those pages being what was left behind if I died.
I'm sorry you are so empty, notebook. Only half of your pages remain. But you will be filled soon with more and more pages of life. Grow with me.

Sunburnt hands, legs, body
it hugs me
and makes me shiver
goosebumps.
Floral jumper:
Helicopters are yelling descriptions
at me
in a firm voice.
Smirking boy skates by
with Kurt Cobain hair
holding his Dr. Pepper
in this heartbeat town.

currently cannot stop listening to:

stoplight.

I'm at a stoplight and it's blocked. I can't see if it's red or green, the truck in front of me is blocking the light. But it keeps going. So I keep going.
Of course, it might be different for me than for this other vehicle. When it goes, the light might be green. By the time I get there it could be yellow or red.
But I go anyway.
I am compelled to keep accelerating forward. I don't even hesitate.
What gives me the trust in this person? What makes me follow their actions? I don't really know them.
Sure, we've been close. Our vehicles have been really close. But these vehicles aren't really us.
The people we actually are, are just residing inside these vehicles that take us through life.
I think you're this person for me. Our vehicles know each other really well. But it's so hollow because maybe the real people inside these vehicles have never met. They've constantly spoken, through the windows. But they've never been able to open the doors and step out, being completely trusting of each other. That would probably be too dangerous, and there's this nagging fear against doing that. And for good reason, because
We're constantly causing each other to run red lights.

Shire. (not in the Lord of the Rings Sense)

I feel like I should explain our usage of this word.
A few months ago, a few of my best friends and I decided that the word "shire", if we're speaking in an onomatopoeic sense, sounds like a knife in the heart. To us, it sounds like a representation of something either really embarrassing, or sad, or scary. So we use it when something in one of those categories happens and we can't think of any other way to describe it.
There are different categories of a shire. You can feel it for someone else when you're embarrassed for them.
You can feel it when you're really sad or embarrassed for yourself.
You can feel it when you have to go to the doctor's office or the dentist and you're feeling uneasy about it.
You can definitely feel it when you have to write 3 papers in one weekend or when you have a general lack of sleep.
I feel like lately, everything I remember doing is a shire.
At night, before I fall asleep, ALL I can do is picture every shire I have ever felt for myself.
I constantly feel embarrassed. I constantly wish to not have said this one thing, or done this one thing.
Am I ever going to figure out how to prevent doing and saying embarrassing things BEFORE I do them?
I honestly hope so.
Hopehopehope.
(I hope your day is not a shire.)

It was 2 in the morning, it was almost 3 in the morning, it depends on which way you round it.
Up or down.
I like things that are worn out:
shoes and backpacks.
The soles are getting thinner, the fabric might have holes.
When I buy them secondhand I feel like I'm cheating because the wear is not mine.
I did not contribute.
I did nothing to thin out the rubber on the bottom, the footprints causing this to happen had nothing to do with my feet.
The tiny holes in the fabric of the backpack didn't result from anything I did.
When these characteristics were being added, when this experience was being added to these objects,
I may have been lying in bed.