My number one recomendation is to do it just like her
The past has a way of creeping up, inflitrating the present with it's insidious poison. Words and their heady aroma, deafen my ears. These same ears with which I hear insistant music in overlit grocery stores. These same ears which cannot not help but ring with painful frequency. The ring is an octive higher than a piano, it never varies in pitch, only in persistency. It interupts activities, wakening me from sleep.
It is this same tenacity that my past persues me. I float between pity and jealousy when I examine the overly dramatic lives of nearly forgotten friends. The pity stems from my pride in thinking that my life has changed, and for the better; jealousy is my natural reaction to competition.
These reactions are real, but narrow.
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