Sometimes I wish I had a bike to ride down here, in Phoenix. To get outside, outside of walking distance from this house, to feel the air rushing across my skin, to breath fresh (or city-fresh, anyway) air and to enjoy the sensation of motion instead of tolerating, ignoring, or dreading it.
I complain about being along, being single. My friends offer advice, suggestions, sometimes explicit directions. I pick apart, discredit, complain more about their attempts at assistance. I say I don’t want to do what it takes to be more than alone. And then I complain about being alone again. You’re right. I’m wrong. I do this to myself. Fuck.
I was working on more of a post, but decided to finish that comic I just posted instead. Time is weird, sometimes, and I’m so sleepy. I’ll have another glass of water and go to sleep, i think. It has cooled off considerably here, and I am no longer sweating here. Not physically anyway.