i want to write, but i literally do not seem able to these past few days. haven't worked at met or the lab at all this week, mostly bumming around reading john irving's the world according to garp and rereading sylvia plath's ariel. afternoon hours this week have been spent with my bare feet tucked underneath me in the most comfiest reading chair of our casa. the rain pounds against the windows and i try not to think about how upset i am that it prevents me from going to the beach on these, my last days of a precious summer break. i wake up late because i come home in the early morning hours. i wonder why i still feel so tired. i sip peach tea and think about what my tea leaves would mean if tea leaves mean anything at all. my words will never measure up to that of a real writer's, and i'm okay with that, i've just been keeping them more and more to myself in my paper journal. once school starts i'm sure i'll just be jotting stuff down here more frequently since physically writing in yet another notebook would probably cause the death of me