"The general journal entry"

"I took off my nail polish, except I only had enough remover for one side. Didn't realize how hard this kind was to get off. My hair, is in a braid across my head. Everything else falls down, messily and fresh and so clean. My messy hippie do. Chuck Taylors are too classic and comfy. These are a teensy weency larger than my size, but all is well. Old Indian blouse, and jeans I haven't worn for over a fortnight. They fit so well, they're just right."

Who reads that ish?

So I sit around, nocturnally wondering what a gal like me does. What do you do? What do people think you do? Besides seemingly having a crazy schedule and always on the go, yet, still breathing. Breathing without knowing you're okay. Because you are just fine, but the outside makes you everything but chilly, you want to hide, bear away from it? From them? They won't bite. I feel as if the way I type is like playing a piano, with my Adele playing so smoothly, so softly in the dimness of my tiny space. It's like my Pandora is my subconscious. It reads my mood, that mood-reader. "Just breathe" plays now, and suddenly I sulk in sadness.
I think it's time to get out of this box of a page. Today was a good day. Day one of Ramadan, owned!

How about that?

Nah.