baths and secrets. but not secret baths, that’d be weird.

First, I’ve been feeling like Goldilocks lately.

And not just because of the color of my hair.

More because, see, I am a fan of a good bath. But recently I’ve been striking out. And it’s been all Papa Bear or all Mama Bear all the time while I’ve had to jump out of the water, it being too hot or too cold, without ever finding my Baby Bear kind of just right.

And a bath is a commitment. It takes some time to fill the tub, not to mention the fact that it is a drain on my bubbly resources. And no, I don’t mean champagne because no, I don’t have any of that. What I do have is some precious stuff that makes the water smell really nice and then get all good and bubbly and so you understand that I don’t like to waste it.

Oh well, there are worse things, I suppose. Like the time I was in Mexico and showering regularly with cockroaches that looked like they ate better than some of the people I met down there.

Next, I have pink shoulders.

Why?

Oh, because of that lovely and unbridled sun. Because of the way it encouraged me to wear a tank top. But also because it’s still the tricky month of March, and though I remember to grab a sweater before I run out the door, I don’t quite remember to wear sun screen. And though I remember to sit in the sun for a very long time, I don’t quite remember that my shoulders have been through a long winter and perhaps I would do well to ease them into sun worshipping rather than bam! here’s the sun: get to it!

And lastly, I am slowly building up some secrets. And now my brother Jason has stopped reading because he is busy texting me, asking me what secret I am referring to on here.

But what I mean is, I am becoming like a city enclosed again, I think.

Or maybe just a nice little home. Some flowers out front. A piano inside. But a lock on the door, which is kind of nice too.

See, there is this house on Appleton Road that I pass by quite a lot. And house is putting it kindly; it’s more likely called ruins. There is no ceiling, no door, and nothing close to four walls. This house, it has no secrets. Anybody passing by can see exactly what is going on, if they care to look. All that it contains is exposed, poor thing.

And sometimes it reminds me of me. Or at least the way I’ve been. It’s weird to be an adult and have your life completely exposed. To suddenly have the door ripped off the hinges and the blinds pulled up, and everybody saying, Oh, wow. That’s what’s going on in there? What. A. Mess.

But now I’m gathering some secrets and I’m feeling less exposed and I’m less like wickipedia and I’m more like a journal and there are songs that I have written that I cannot yet sing for you and there are pages I am writing that nobody has read and I’m feeling some autonomy and I’m feeling less like ruins and I like the feel of a door right here again and I’m careful about who I let through it, can you blame me?

And I think all of this is a pretty good idea.

One heck of a run-on sentence, but still, a pretty good idea.