Laissez vos murs tomber, s'il-vous-plait

I can't. I can't remember. It's too mushed up, mauled, grotesquely mutated. I can't help you anymore. I can't look. Plaited, plaits, plates. Plates to break. 
But we'll run out of time. So please. Please. I want to make you laugh again.
Or for the first time, if it didn't mean anything. 
Today's blog is brought to you in italics because it sounds more like whispering, in my head. Or like praying. But then again, I wouldn't know. I write down my prayers. It's called a journal.
Is it weird that I have a blog and a journal?
And still have thoughts running through my brain at 50 mph?

Things I remember:
This one time, Rachel described me as lion-hearted. 
It's one of those things that stay with me and every time I need it, it's there. Like a bobby pin.
Like Rachel.


If you're proud of something, put it in your backpack, show it off. Like sheep.