not sure if you're a boy or a girl

Here I am, once again, sitting in front of my computer, pretending to do homework, and listening to music that gives me a sore throat. Today, I stopped to listen to the mechanical click of my watch. It makes a whirring sound when you reset the timer. Sort of like a purring cat. I probably wouldn’t say so if I actually owned a cat. My mother hates my college essay. Says “it’s not bad, but the language doesn’t soar the way it usually does.” I don’t know what she means by “soar”. Eagles soar. Freddie Mercury’s voice soars (compare to Roger Taylor’s, which just sort of squeaks). My writing isn’t beautiful, just brutally honest. I think people must love it so much because I strip myself bare for everyone to see. Then they come to see Eric hurt. See Eric love. See Eric hate. See Eric care. Well, I have news for them. Somewhere between late night IM conversations and sunny Los Angeles streets, I took that Eric and I killed him. And yet, I hate the new Eric. I want to feel. I want to touch something.