sometimes i think that i have a hard time making friends because i don't really believe that i'm fun to hang out with. i bore myself. after a week of looking for jobs and running and going to the gym. and cooking and cleaning and talking to the pets about how i'm sorry i can't touch them much anymore because they make me sick and then feeling bad, calling the dog up to my lap and petting him with my head resting on his. and while browsing blogs and flickr and twitter and facebook and thinking that everyone else's life looks so much more beautiful, fun, enchanting, purposeful and less-allergic than mine. with a new poem forming on my tongue as the shower hits my hair that is in this ugly in-between and i scrub the day from my face and shoulders and that place beneath my ankle bone that collects dirt and grime on nearly every run. when i'm smashing garlic and warming olive oil and slicing onion and peppers and salting. when i'm getting into my car that is the filthiest on the block. caked in winter's guts. and while i drive by houses with chimneys that don't have holes and with perfect paths and non-peeling paint and probably beautifully decorated master bedrooms and tv rooms and the perfect rugs for accent. and when i climb into my bed covered in shabby chic sheets from target and a comfy down comforter that i love and realize is probably the cause of one or more sinus infections. and when i turn out the light and lay. uttering a "thanks" or "forgive me" to god. before drifting off to dream of things that i haven't. yet. done.