Sporadic thoughts, feeling, odds and ends

When I exit my car after listen to a chapter of an audiobook, I look like a mad woman. As I walk the varying number of blocks to my destination, usually home or school, I talk to myself. Not in a half whisper or through the narrator in my head, but out loud, to the Chicago streets. Sometimes muscle cars pass by and fully cloak my sound and other times the is no noise besides me. No one hears me, and if they did, they would assume I was just another kind girl who lost her way and stumbled across a laced blunt or two. They give me a judging stare and go along to never hear my voice again. When I walk though, I don't talk to myself like a friend or another stranger on the street. I speak like an audiobook reader. I watch my tone float and sink as each sentence bobs along my tongue. I hit each “P” with a crisp flick and let the “R”s stay gentle yet strong. Some fall flat and I retry. Over and over and over. Then I arrive and press pause, on the edge of my seat waiting for the next story.