She thinks I'm "rebounding." I have a general idea of what that means, but I don't think it applies to me. I think most of these concepts and dating terms are over there. I'm over here. I'm out of my mind, I readily admit. But when I look down?; both feet on the ground.
This is when I think about writing in notebooks. I try to summarize my thoughts and actions here, but when they get as foggy as this sentence, I begin to recognize the anonymous value of pens and paper.
It's more than sex. It's more than friendship. That's not enough.
I might get hurt. I don't want to. It's not up to me.
It's the good kind of problem to have. In fact, if I had to choose a problem from a list, this would be the one I'd pick. In fact, I'll no longer frame this situation as a problem. It's potentially a dagger, but maybe time will pass and nobody will get stabbed. I'm a calm character. I'm just trying to be honest and realistic.
The second half of my day is fairly predictable.
Shelly came over to eat tofu hoagies and listen to music. It was great. I've rearranged my room, and I could not love it more. I got a portable radiator-style heater. I won't wake up with cold toes again. I have a chair. I have colorful pretty lights. I have good speakers. I could not like this room any more. Wait... No... I was right. This room is perfect.
I got lit up as fuck, and Shelly drove me and my roommate and his girlfriend around to a couple parties. I overdid it like I always do, and I don't know whether I came across like a fucking idiot flake or if I glanced by just under the radar.
Pens and paper, pens and paper, pens and paper...