It isn't that at all

I've been MIA. Like the band but without the accent. It isn't that I haven't been reading, it's that I haven't been writing. There, I said it. It's out, and like I imagine it is in AA, the first step's been made and I'm on my way to recovery. I feel all out of sorts, like I've been drinking a lot of water but not letting myself pee--like so many words are building up inside of me. I've started letting it out in leaks, random bursts of stolen minutes that I dust my typewriter off. It's like picking up a habit I accidentally let fall by the wayside. We're getting reacquainted. It's terribly romantic and wonderful.

In short, updates to come. Read One Hundred Years of Solitude while in Costa Rica and have begun my obsession with Garcia Marquez and things that don't make sense and do make sense at the same time.

Nabila and I are starting a break-up letter project that consists of us writing break up letters to one another. I'll post a few on here when they're finished.

What I Wish I'd Written: ANYTHING. Anything at all.