Little Women, which I’m supposed to have read over a week ago, is still sitting in my bag somewhere. The book has such a weird shape, and the laptop case I carry around really can’t hold much more than, well, a laptop, so it’s stuffed in one of the back pockets.
Before I left this morning, Jude started speaking to me. (Jude Law’s voice is my conscious/narrator.) Rae, he said, Little Women is a classic, praised all over the world for it’s… well, actually, I’m not sure why. But that’s because you don’t know why. I don't even like this book either. Why don't you look it up on SparkNotes? You’ll have to figure out some way to avoid all the ads—
He never sounds right when he voices my thoughts. They get too distracted and, more often than not, are superfluous to what I had intended to tell myself in the first place. He stopped talking for my sake, which really didn’t help. I mean, there’s a reason I chose his voice to listen to all day.
I’m looking at the mountains and the grey sky as I type this sentence. Like, right now I’m staring at them. They remind me of why I started writing and how gloriously talented I am at ignoring that book.
I really want to eat my fish crackers, but it’s too quiet.
I push the button on my computer that tells me what the weather is going to be like for the next week: little raindrops inside the snow.
That’s on the next day, too.
And then snowflakes… snowflakes… snowflakes… the word ‘crestfallen’ pops into my head for some reason… snowflakes. In a cheap way, it’s kind of ironic that all the snowflakes look the same.