Fourteen.

The number of days left till I get to leave this place. Oh yeah. Don’t get in my way, time. 

The number of hours, one way, that my parents drove to see my flute recital. They’re the sweetest and the greatest.

The numbers of hours of awakeness per day that I’m not allowed to say mean things about people. But I don’t know, I guess it’s just easier to say things instead of not. Keeping icky thoughts in takes a toll on one’s brain. For example, all the awful things I think about are just too much for one girl to handle. Someone else needs to know about the ridiculous things my roommate says. I can’t just contain the laughter all in my brain. Honestly, not gossiping is hard. And all I can seem to think is that straight facts aren’t gossiping. Right? If I say,  “Yeah, she came into the room and signed, rather loudly, and then went on to read a very long text message conversation about a boy that she’s going on a date with, again.” That’s not gossiping, I swear. But then again, straight facts are never straight facts because language itself isn’t objective, like facts should be.

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