I heard a phone ring, but the mindless chatter continued. Must have been my imagination. Though they were giving directions to a man with a thick accent, maybe it was his cell phone. Upstairs is quiet, serene and the atmosphere is everything I've come to hold dear. The gentle hum of the computer, that no one hears but me, the clacking of the keys as I type, the lack of real sun light. The furniture also makes the room. A strange assortment of colors, styles and all arranged in such a confusing manner, question the designers thinking.

What should be stair railing is a bookself, obstructed by the loveseat, grays and dull yellow in color. Oh it rests a green blanket and my junk, never arranged neatly, a reflection on my nature. The computer sits on an old desk in front of the only two windows that open, giving it a nice breeze on warm days and direct sunlight. The sun heats it up faster then time can, so why put it here? The curtains are blue and simple. Next is the coffee table, I want it. Its just the right height to sit on the floor and work, or use as an extra seat. Its slammed against the sofa to match the love seat. A green blanket also draped over its back, but my junk is replaced by large pillows. One is designed like a quilt, the others match the couch print. Holly's been lazy, and left her easter bunny and the otters I gave her on it.

For some reason there's an exercise machine up here. No longer used for that purpose, rather its used as a plant holder. Why? I have no clue in hell. There's an another couch across from it, new design, browns, but the same pillows. A grandfather clock stands in the corner, it old and doesn't work, but I want it. Three rooms are on this floor. Because this is a hotel, there's no other private place for the owners to call their own. So upstairs is two bedrooms, the parents and child, and a private bathroom. Not decorated, but for some reason there's usually foliage growing out of the tub.

The internet has died again, so I sit and type about the things around me. Why? Holly says its good practice, I think she's right. Though none of this is written in a manner that's readable, I think I do the room justice. If I don't it won't matter, this text is not for prying eyes Though Holly may skim over this, that could never bother me. My spelling and grammar are better then hers.

Downstairs the adults prattle on about things that never mattered to anyone but them. Stories of adventures pass trough the air to lowly attentive ears. The adults pretend to be entertained, excited, interested. But I know they're usually being polite. Adults are so boring. I strain my ears for sounds that mean my friend is done work and soon we'll be having conversation. Sharing stories of things we're interested in and if we're lucky, truely listen to one another.

They call us young adults. If what I surmise of the adults is true, I think I'll remain a young adult forever. I'd much rather talk about things I care about, discovering people that share my interest and want to talk to me. Adults gather and chat politely, no ones ever truely interested. No one really cares. Its like politics. They talk about what's interesting to them and the others are forced to listen, hoping for the floor. Adults are so stuck in their ways and thinkings, why ever bother leaving the home? They don't wish to discover, to explore, to learn. When adults become old, grizzled and are called seniors, they see the error of never doing things. They see that all along we young people have the best idea. Then they try to recapture that which they have lost and waited till to late to regain. Grannies on motorcycles, Grampies building things. All doing things their bodies can't handle, but force them to do anyway. Why? For what?

Wow I have a lot to say once I get going, maybe its because I haven't had enough sleep in two days. Maybe its because of the exercise. I don' know, I don't care, it doesn't matter.

OH! Lucky me, one adult has left. Wait another has joined the fray. My head pulsates with the beginings of a headache. When will my tortured friend be freed of her shackles, carefully disguised by the adults as ‘work'? I wince mentally as the adults introduce themselves to the new comers. Here they go again.

I stopped writing, my right wrist feels sore. Why? Because I've typed too much, because the same action over and over can wear over even the sturdiest metal shaft. Twist the metal to the left every day, one day you'll go to do it and it'll break.

There goes a cell phone. One of the more stupid inventions of this time. Yes its useful to ahold of those traveling or if you're not sure where they've gone. I often wish my own mother had one, she's always on the run. But then I really think, why bother? I can just wait till I see her later in the day. Or I can call my grandparents, they usually know what's what. "What's what" mom says that a lot.... I get a lot of my vocabulary from her. I like it, its catchy, witty, smart and always to the point.

A knock at the door? Strange... someone's leaving... Maybe they left some one in the car, they got impatient. I'm probably wrong as another adult comes to take its place. They're like cockroaches. Chitter chatter always about nothing, always in large groups. Going about their daily business, not really caring about the thoughts of those around them. I wonder if cockroaches dominate another race to do their mindless chores. Like maybe they tell the ants how to harvest, the worm how to wiggle, the sun how to sun and the wind how to blow..... A little or dramatic. Well the adults are rather commanding over those of younger years, they always say they mean well.

My back hurts, damn chairs. I blame school. As a smaller child, I was quiet, shy, reserved. Huddled over my desk as a protective shield from the outside. I have bad posture now, that's what I blame it on. I need typing lessons. I need to stop looking at th keyboard while I type. Is a strain on my neck and I basically know where they all are anyway. But out of sheer habit, I continue to look down. Here I'll type for a bit with the shelf tucked neatly into the desk. I can't guarantee any of my spelling.

Y tjh Hj Jpoiu Just finding jmy footing. I knoe wbere they are its hust to jkh get into the typing rant I ususallly get into then ity sall dsreems to write ti self. But my laxk of confidence hinders mr.

Man that was slow going. Back to staring at the board again. My eyes are fuzzy. Damn lamplight. Fixed. Touch lamps, they're so much fun.

The hell page am I on now? 3? That's it? For all this ranting.... well I guess its in type. Written I could be on page 5 or 7. Depends on my letters. Big/small.

give up for now, I'm starved. Wonder if there's anything to eat today. Maybe I'll find something quick, please let there be something quick.

Leaving 11:20 am

Returning 11:22 am

A juice carton and crackers. There were blueberries and bananas, but I'm lazy. Berries have to be washed and bananas you have to peel. Lazy bitch ain't I?

My juice carton is wrapped in tape. I try to free my straw without having to mess with the tape. Its probably easier to just peel the tape, but laziness is often overrun by stubborn and crazy ideas. Success, I have my straw and the tape remains. It was easy, surprisingly. MMmmmm punch. The cool liquid, I can feel it all the way down. I love that feeling. Hn. The crackers aren't salted. What's the point in that?

Holly's back, she's messing in the bathroom. She's in there a lot, but I never bothered to ask why. Its really none of my business. Besides no one likes B.O.

She's back, looking over my shoulder. I think I'll let her read this ranting. It should scare the shit outta her.

Leaving again 11:28 am

Returning 11:40 am

It takes a long time to read all of this. Holly agrees, I scare her. That's cool! Oops lamp.... She's gone back for more work. I hope she gets paid well. Holly thinks I should post this. I think somethings should be revised before I do. As she read through we found errors the sun how to shine not the sun how to sun. But I'm staring at the keyboard, unless it has a red line under it I have no clue.

Back to lunch. Juice box is empty and I've eaten all the crackers I can stand. Stables... I'm blinking slowly now. I have noting to write about. Sure there are a few things, but I don't feel like exploring my need to go to the bathroom that I can suppress for another hour as I type, or the anime Naruto and my dream last. Wow I talked about lunch for a long time, not.

I think I am going to go to the washroom room now. I don't plan on writing in this afterwards. I'm pretty sure I've been typing for over an hour... So the exercise is over. Maybe I'll do this again, in my own home next time. And maybe I will post this. It ought to make people think twice about the author of moving closets and her truer personality. Wow truer is actually a word.

Exeunt: 11:48 am, July 30 2003