[i think] i like like you ;; danny [i think]

I like the world.

At least, I like to think that I like the world (as cruel as its punch can be), because I don’t want to be one of those people with dark shadows under their eyes and dirty hands and black fingernails and a frown that encompasses their entire being and disheveled hair that covers the eyes you don’t want to cross paths with and hunched shoulders and a either a pack of cigarettes or a container of alcohol or some other teddy bear they can hug when the coping becomes unbearable, but if I was one of those people then I most definitely wouldn’t be here on this porch -- which makes a violent noise with every step I take and nags me with the trifling worry that I might fall through any moment -- as I wait for Axsoa to finally please answer his door because I just knocked but okay, I’ll knock again: knock, knock, knock, and suddenly I start to worry that I’m not at the right house and I worry a little more and then I remember a book my real parents read to me called Wemberly Worried, about a mouse who worried, and it was my favorite book but Wemberly was never happy because she always worried and I sure hope I never turn out like Wemberly even though the only thing I really worry about is worrying too much because worrying makes you unhappy and I want to be one of happy people who frolic across meadows in cute little sundresses, even when it’s windy: one of those people who laugh and sing and smile, who you just always want to be around and who always wants to be around you, but I’ve never even owned a sundress and it’s hard to sing when my throat’s so dry that I will stand in the rain and watch the drops fall into my mouth until I catch hypothermia if the rain ever comes, although I do remember one time when the rain came and all the kids made mud angels -- there were many gunshots that day – but suddenly I wonder if Axsoa, the boy whom I owe twenty-eight of my life points to (refer to the guilt grading scale which you’ll find somewhere in the back of my head), has ever made mud angels or snow angels and I wonder if he’s ever had a childhood, unlike so many of us, but he still hasn’t answer the door, so I knock again and I say his name, “Axsoa!” as I look down at the small bucket full of colorful sticks my younger sister made that I have with me on this miraculous Sunday of no work – my younger sister apparently calls them chalk? “You can paint on the street!” she said, although I’d never heard of such a thing before (not even back in the Capitol) which means it must be a pre-Dark Days sort of craft? – and then I knock one more time in case he’s sleeping (at two in the afternoon?) and add in a quick, “I brought some chalk!” even though I doubt he knows what that is, especially since I have a lot of wonders about these colorful sticks that soon turn into worries – are there any fire hazards involved? – but then I realize I deal with fire hazards every day in the factory so I should be able to deal with colorful sticks that emit paint and then I smile because I think I hear footsteps and I like footsteps because footsteps mean companionship and companionship is always good because I like people, especially people who live in this world because I like this world (I think).

ooc; omg took me lyke 4evr to code!!!!! sorry!!!!