flashback to high school:
a party is in progress, in my basement. kurt cobain has been discovered dead hours earlier. we were drinking koolaid (hey, i was straightedge) and talking. d.m.k. comes down the stairs:
"OMIGOD, everyone, have you heard--kurt cobain killed himself!!!!"
a girl who didn't like her: "no i live under a rock."
i want to hide lately. sad things happening everywhere. "are you excited abt the inauguration?" no, i'm really depressed. another four miserable years. hiding in my pastel apartment. telephone calls. is this okay? stomach messed up. adventure books. wishing for your arms, your voice. books about women being burned (burned alive, by souad)--how could this happen? my body my choice.
i like my rock.
ignoring the new york times, the political blogs, all that sort of stuff. these stories spouting from my friends' mouths, hiding in my piles of blankets. waiting for something. until then, hiding.
i love my rock.