at_the_airport squint There is an old couple discussing the perils of using a lid (the coffee leaked out). I wonder sometimes if I can find the love of my life and be able to look at them when they are 65 and think they are absolutely BEAUTIFUL still. There is another girl writing across the room--if you'd call this a room. She's pretty. Thin. She has the face that I think fits me. If I had her face, my hair and clothing would be different, though. Her face is ME and I am stuck in this haphazardly peiced monster of a body with my vague in between ugly face. Pretentious brow looming over my minimalistic standardized print, worthlessness presides brooding in her tunnel vision, projecting red laser beams at my tiny font, i am caught like a jelly fish in a net, being siphooned, falling to peices, a mess everywhere. And I've got no spine. I've got a notebook with a twisted bind, its crooked spine must be painful, spiraling around the nerves I pretend live throughout this book. I want to fly already. 020801 what's it to you? who go blather from