Pointness

I wrote this a long time ago, one friday morning I had no school. I dont remember why. We were voting on Propositions. I don't even remember what Prop 77 was. Hmmm...

You know, the phone is a rather awful thing; I don’t ever remember a time where I was actually excited to hear it ring, although maybe that is I, and not my phone. I like to sleep in on my holidays, but apparently the lovely recording of Cindy, a registered nurse who believes we should vote no on prop 77, is just perky as could be at 8:00 in the morning, but hey, maybe that is because we voted no on prop 77 three days ago. I figure I might as well get up because I don’t think that the voice of Cindy is going to leave my head anytime soon. I get dressed for no apparent reason and then lie right back down again. It may be a Friday, but I still have to work tomorrow, so I absent-mindedly start packing my backpack full of all the stupid notes lying around my room. Pointlessness. That is the key. No more things that make any sense what so ever. Then there is no worrying. The notes I took have nothing to do with work. They are stories I will never finish, that I don’t bother myself to finish, that I cant finish, that I do not want to finish. Pointlessness. I wonder if that is how all great writers start. Or maybe they start with pointness dripping off of every word. Probably. Which proves my only point in writing this that I really suck.