It is right now five minutes to twenty-two. My eyes sting, my neck is sore, and I am very drained. The balls of my feet are peeling. I want to write something stream of consciousness, but I know I can't right now. A free-flowing thought exercise is easy when you're a touch typist with your eyes closed, but it's much more difficult when that touch typist is tired. I know that I'll have to spell check this while thing, and it will annoy me.
I should keep typing despite typos, but I have a habit of going back to correct my errors as I type them. I've not done it at all this line. I'm very proud of that. I'll hate it later on.
I don't plan on typing very long tonight, it was a very draining day. I suspect that I'll be finished by 22:05 by the time I'm done editing. This room is very warm. That was delicious pasta. Sweat is gathering on my brow like protesters waiting for someone to rile them up. I hope no riots ensue. That was an odd analogy. I'll leave it. It seems fun and edgy, vaguely politically charged. I've been making political jokes all day. I hate politics, I hate them so much. Especially local.
I should go back to playing guitar when I finish typing this. I'm too tired for it to sound like any of the songs I know, but it's a nice way to cap off a tedious evening. I should practice piano for class, but I don't think I have the energy for it. I must make sure I do practice in the morning regardless of what else I do.
When I played yesterday for the class I successfully butchered songs that I know inside and out. Two songs that I've spent a good chunk of time playing in my house just wouldn't come out of my fingers when I sat at the old Grand. It's embarrassing to fail in front of your peers when you know that you shouldn't. Normally I don't really get embarrassed. Normally I'm quick on y feet and can easily smooth over any lumps in the frosting of public performance's cake. Yesterday I jabbed my finger down and scooped out the inside of the pastry to smear on the wall and call art with my terrible performance.
It's 22:06. I'm a minute over my writing exercise. Blast. At the very least, I know I can force myself to write when I don't really feel like it. Just like high school.
My wrist is itchy where a friend's dog jumped on me. I don't think she can control her energy (most dogs, children, and people I know can't), but she was very affectionate. The scratches are nearly faded except for that itch.
Itchy itchy itchy. When I think about an itch, other parts get it too. Now my thumb itches. How does a thumb itch? I don't know. And my knee, and now my left calf.
I should stop.