Processing

Something happened yesterday and I'm not gonna write about it. It's hard for me to write about emotional things without having time to process them. Kind of weed away the pain a bit. I don't have the same problem if I am just irritated-that can flow baby!-and writing helps to relieve the pressure and lighten my own mood. But when it's something sad, I need some time to distance myself.

I still can not quite come to terms with what some people do. I'm talking about adults. No offense to anyone under 29 out there, but kiddies are just natural born, self-centered little creatures. You expect them to act like self-aborbed, out of control, hurtful asses. But when you are dealing with an adult and they seem to be missing that little dam that lives in most peoples brains, that tends to be moderately effective at keeping their feelings from raging down the river, and becoming really destructive behavior (phew that's a long sentence and I'm not even done), it's another thing all together. Mix in little ol' -pure and innocent-trying -to -be- a -better- person-me . . . and I'm gonna get wiped out by the water.

So this thing happened last night . . . again. And I should just let it roll off my back like the greasy, toxic poison that it is, but my pores are too big and I soak it in like a sponge, and then spend the night, and the next day, and maybe even the next, waiting to dry. I leave a lot of water behind me on the floor.