autumn is for l<3vers

There's something about autumn--a new breeze, the leafy smell--that drives people into each other's arms so quickly I can't keep track.

Forget what they said about spring. Spring is when people break up.

So while everybody and their uncle are all giddy and blushing and lovingly poking each other, I'm craving ice cream and feeling too sensitive and dreaming about the past. Two nights in a row.

I am having an off week.

I measure the on- and offness of my weeks by how often the past interferes with the present. Which is immeasurably more likely when even my mailbox has a significant other.

You can't manipulate the past to make it more friendly. You can't deny it into submission. You can't change the past's opinion of you, no matter how articulate a letter you write. You can't make the past understand you. You can't make the past want to.

Even if all you want to do is invite the past over for tea, and talk to the past until everything starts going in a forward direction for you again.

In conclusion, the past is a filthy dirty bastard. And it's best just to forget about it.

In other news, apparently I turned 21. I received a letter from the state of Illinois congratulating me on that fact and strongly discouraging me from drinking and driving. Now I guess I'm living in the future? Does that mean Bush is out of office?

I need a pint of ice cream. I need Amelie. Then I might return to the present.