i don't think i hate typing out entire songs. i should for how often i do it. i just had a flashback to a twenty-second nap in the neighbor boy's bed as a twelve-year-old. oh, the days. it was hot in there. it was probably as hot as it was outside and his daddy even paid for central air conditioning.

i've been jolted from my flashback by the sounds of our old wooden floors creaking under someone's footsteps. no beige carpet can ever absorb enough shock to keep anyone, even me, from sneaking around in this house. the fans are on and my head aches. i don't know why i'm still here talking about the neighbor boy and the floorboards and the ceiling fan.

the dull pain behind my eyeballs isn't the kind i'm used to. i'm used to it throbbing against my eyeballs like two waterballoons at the end of two tunnels, each just big enough to fit one balloon at the end, in front of two mack trucks barreling toward the entrances like bats out of hell. but, right now is constant. more dull, more painful, more persistant.

the lights are on. the lights are on. but, God help me when the lights go off. i don't mind the dark, but i don't like it. i'm most comfortable in it and i don't like it when the sun is out. i know i need it. i freeze when it's here, let alone when it burns out like the lantern i forgot to fill with kerosene two summers ago.

my God, i hate camping.

the sun is like that person you don't really like that much, but when you need them, they're there. you try your best to be there for them and you usually are, but let's face it, he's always just so there. maybe he's a she and he hasn't told you yet; girls can be pretty adament. you probably figured it out, though, while you were dry humping in your grandmother's rarely-used living room on the old blue couch your 'friend' was sleeping on for the week next to the out-of-tune piano.

i wish i could play the piano. i mean, i wish i could play the piano. you play nicely with the back of your skull, and he with the base of his hands where his palm meets his wrist and the veins within his wrists start to swell. i know you're not sure why the blood isn't running elsewhere and your guess is as good as mine. i think you're pretty. it's what's inside that matters anyway.

he's going to use you again in about two years in your mother's mini-van. you'll probably be pretty happy when he actually hugs you like he means it, but by the end of the night, you'll be teasing, he'll be yearning, and he'll pop you one right in the kisser, in essence because his fist has been there, where your mouth is about to be, every day for the past three-hundred and sixty-nine days. he's just been dumped; it's not his fault he hasn't had a music lesson at the out-of-tune piano in your grandmother's house. you didn't even send him home with music.

what kind of a teacher are you?

in later news, i've been clearing all of the expensive appliances and so forth from my desk at the office because i don't have the money to replace them. i can't just go brushing computers and expensive, foreign telephones off of my desk when you come in just after five looking into a promotion. i don't mind if you don't mind. i wouldn't mind a personal secretary and you wouldn't mind booting good, old lisa out of the job as long as the machine is still in the bathroom. it'd be okay anyway because you love me... right? you've loved a lot of the women here.

what kind of an office is this?

i don't mind as much about the glass paperweight i received at my five-year employment party, which i'm sure you remember. i know i remember the gorgeous chocolate color of the bathroom at Mr. Hathaway's house. his wife always did have an artistic touch for interior decoration. your wife couldn't make it, i recall. i believe you said she had poison ivy from camping with the kids that previous weekend.

my God, i hate camping.

but, i know she wasn't the only once feeling itchy. i could smell the anxiousness on you all night. i knew you wanted that promotion, so i excused myself to powder my nose. my nose, however, is still punishing me with this awful head cold for ignoring it in that chocolate-walled bathroom.

i'll be waiting here; watching my ceiling fan twirl, worsening and wishing away the dull ache behind my eyeballs; for you to come in to see about that promotion. but, your stops in the bathroom on your way to my office from your cubicle are getting longer every day.