I am standing in line at the pharmacy counter in the hospital. This is my fourth visit to the doctors office in 3 weeks, the smell of the elderly seeping like smoke under my overworn fleece. Do we live our lives too much? or not enough? To find ourselves broken down and wearied all of a sudden, in the bleek and budgeted hospitals. I'm watching at some couples quietly argue, perhaps about money or nothing at all, just out of stress, or anxiety and worry. I slight turn of the head and beside them is a loving couple. The husband holding her hand and adjusting her pillow so that she is at her most comfortable. He whispers sweet nothings in her ear as though they were 17 again and she slowly nods her head in thanks. What makes the difference I wonder. Where has one gone wrong, where the others went right? Did one have money and the other stuggle just to make ends meet? or vice versa. Perhaps, ones Mother and Father raised them to appreciate and love, keep an open mind and communicate. What works? if anything?

Last night, after going outside for a positively frigid cigarette break, I took a moment for myself in the bathroom before resuming work on about 4 batches of gingerbread cookies. It seems as through, from the bottom of my overworn sneakers up to my blonde roots, that I had no idea what the hell I was doing. The image of his face kept reappearing behind my eye lids and I just couldn't seem to shake it as much as I tried. I kept questioning my motives as well as other things. I brushed my teeth to kill some time and get the horribly dry ashy taste of Marlboro from under my tongue. Looking down at my pants, my right thigh has several white flour hand prints and I'm reminded of a similar tattoo I want. Autumn leaves, scattered behind a vine tattoo I already have.

1 hour left to the day, and I'm flipping mindlessly through the pictures. Mindy Smith's smooth voice breezes through my dark hair. There is so much I miss and can not get back. Banjo's and antiquated Casio keyboards. Santa Claus laughter and warm smiles. Homework in bed, Phish documentaries, and 90's pop music. Late night chicken fingers, practice rooms, and paint by numbers. Not entirely sure how I found myself here, at this cluttered desk, updating spreadsheets and coughing gently into the crook of my elbow so as not to distub those around me. I triple check the weekend, highlighted and whited out more than once. Not a moments rest until Christmas Eve. Three, fourteen hour days, right in a row. When do I finally get to play? When do I get to be carefree and reckless with my moments and my mind? All these minutes pass and I can barely make out how important they are. Stamp this sheet, paid, and move through the next one. Mark it, stamp it, code it, process it. Saying I feel like a robot is giving this action too much credit. At least the robot, without having any feelings at all, never faulters, never performs less than the best. As my mind wanders, I scribble a bit on the notepad. Fill in the corners with blue ink and meander about mindless thoughts. I'm waiting for my phone to vibrate maybe? or just for an IM to pop up and distract me effortlessly from this ignorant war path I've set myself on. I slow and painless numbing down of the nerves and all extraneous by - products.