To Begin Again

It's July 30th, and tomorrow's not August. I never learned the months song that everybody sings to me if I ask how many days are in a particular month, so if I'm wondering when no one's around, I make it up. Thirty days has September, April, June and November.. and well, that's all I need to know. And I always know. It's like when I have to figure out something in alphabetical order, I have to sing the whole thing out, "A" until whichever letter I'm looking for. It's something you know, but feel the need to sing anyway. Maybe that's why I try not to ask people how many days are in such-and-such a month. Singing is annoying. Well, no, singing is fine. But most of the time, if I ask something like that, it's because I don't want to think and I want a quick answer. I don't want you to sing me a song you learned when you were four or five, because by the time you answer my question, I've already figured it out myself and moved on.

August weather, July whatever, 80° plus weather with too much humidity, is also annoying. All I want to do is sit down in my room, relax, and think. The next thing I know, I'm sweating and dehydrated, but when I reach around for one of the three open bottles of Poland Spring on my desk, they're all empty and I can't recall ever drinking them. Two young boys cross my mind, and they're boys I've never met and will never meet. The one from the Verizon commercial and the one who asks his dad about his test - the Cheerio's commercial. Especially the latter, they seem so innocent. Innocence crosses my mind and that's all it does - it crosses. Everything else in my mind is inappropriate; too mature. I wonder how innocent the kids on the commerical are. How exposed they are. And this is all in my mind because I can't figure out how this lady got my cell number. Linda? Maybe Linda. She called, about a modeling and acting free informational meeting in Boston this weekend. I'm not a model. I don't act. I don't remember filling anything out about either job. She mentions the fact that I'm a minor, reminds me that I'd need adults with me, and mentions money. Any lack of interest seems irrelevant when you can get paid to do nothing. And my mind goes back to those inappropriate thoughts. All I'm trying to do is think of ideas; I want to write again. I need something to work with. And all I can come up with is a bunch of one-liners.

I look down at my legs and they're covered with these red, sometimes painful, scabs and I feel like I have leprosy or some sort of disease that overly scratched and shaved over mosquito bites can't give you. Just beyond the view of my peripheral vision, I can almost see a water bottle that has a few good sips left. I make a full turn, only to decide it's not worth getting up for. Past years' English classes cross my mind after entering the period, reminding me not to end sentences with for, but what can you do. Next to that water bottle is Ender's Game, which I restarted reading last night, and I wonder how I'm ever going to get back into writing if I don't even give myself time to read. I wonder how I'm ever going to get back into writing if I have the internet; complete with distractions, and a keyboard; complete with a backspace and a delete key.