I am at the chinese restaurant that somehow stands a part of every kid's childhood. My siblings are waiting at home for the enormous amounts of fried rice I've been tasked with buying, and it probably won't take as long to drive home as I want it to.
Mom and Dad are on a date somewhere in Dallas, and we are going to rent a movie like we usually do, except tonight ot won't be the same. Mom will return just as sick as before and Dad will walk in the door with that tired look on his face.
I am contemplating this on the "spinny chairs" at the bar where you can watch the chefs fry up some rice and lo mein.
I guess I like being out of the house and alone a little too much these days. With everything going on in my head... well... maybe it's easier to think about the tough stuff with a constant change of scenery. Either way it hurts. My head is a broken window and my face has become the duct tape attempting to keep out the wind. It's scattering the scraps of paper I hurriedly write songs on, it's picking up dust and pulling it back down, creating chaos where I haven't broken things already.
I'm rolling down the windows of the car, I'm letting my hair get tangled.
Only in my dreams.
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