juice and the metal cup

i want to write. i really do.
Every time i sit down and start the familiar click clack my stomach jumps up into my throat and makes a mess of my fingertips and I can't focus.
i wish i were more like my sister.
instead i'm more like me, pouring orange juice in an aluminum metal cup, unfinished, metallic taste tanging up the orange. i sip on lukewarm soup wishing this nausea to go away.
i think everyone just makes excuses for me.

i'm tired.
i'm pointless.
and i can't write anymore.

too much past presenting itself in dreams in swirls in match points in "we're all grown up" in it at all. i'm going to curl up, i'm being stood up at the moment, and round eight i'll be made to feel guilty for not going out earlier.

i'll bathe.. read another book, that will be three in this past weekend.. i'll try to sort this muck, and try it all again... tomorrow..