n'est pas

Home, provided I was actually remembering "home" and not a carefully planted facsimile, promised mismatched socks and less-than-glossy backissues.
So driving driving and eventually I end up in a chair, because eventually everyone ends up in a chair. They don't want to explain the chair, or explain themselves in the chair, because even after years and years of French kings named Louis trying to glam up the chair, a chair remains inherently boring.
"Of course you could, say, trip over the chair or throw the chair and then you really have something. But my god. Furniture. Is it really worth the effort?"
"Well. Beds, probably. Posturepedic."
We were trying to layer topic on top of topic and still retain coherence, scattering "uh-huhs" and furiously bobbing heads. Trying to remember where we lost track proved dangerously close to migraine territory.
But there really is no better way to spend a Sunday morning, into Sunday afternoon, into Sunday evening. Because we did after all have what in common, and had who in common and could throw around names and places in record time. And motivation! like a poster, like a sad motherfucking school counselor. Yeah, everything's on fire sometimes. Just give it a day or two.
Every time is like coming back to life, like coming back to life after a small death, just look away or you'll see how scary a blank stare gets.
She likens it to the pull-cord bringing the living, breathing, talking true-to-life as it gets doll back to life so it can kick and scream it's little cord out.
"Just don't let it get stuck." Too long alive and the doll begins to think everything is real and everything can stay magnificently real. The cord rips, she falls too fast. It hurts.
"I'm fine. Really. God, I hate metaphors. Why do I spout metaphors? Shit."
Feet. One. Two. Still there. Excellent.