I'm writing again. On paper. Poems written on computer screens suck. They reflect the shallow-ness of my computer life. So the poems on paper are not so good but they are real. The poems on paper are real because my soul controls my standard bic blue pen and they are real because sometimes (sometimes) when I read them aloud they are their own little country. Yesterday I saw the beginings of crows feet and realized that in less than ten years I will be 30. Four hours later I put highlights in my hair and decided to start yoga again. Despite the fact that I think vainity is wrong, I am vain. And I can't help put obsess over my appearance. I can blame society's propensity for judgement but I won't. It's not the reason. I very simply enjoy looking my best.