scrimmage

'I can only feel the blood in my veins when I'm drinking, and the air in my lungs when it's below freezing'

Typical, as the lonely hearted, extraverted, twenty something, lost-cause, could cry, simply to explain herself.  

All this information she's been trying to digest, obtained from the daily bread she's pretending to feed on, is just there to sop up the wine she'll drink at night.

If she could reference a film she'd watched, made in the early 40's, innovative for it's style, directed by Hitchcock, then she'd be set, without education.

lack of focus on the New York Times Headlines, reading every other sentence in every other article to highlight interest, except she won't retain blatant connotation.

she'll exist in coffee hubs and solid black leather boots through the winter, as though she were you, or her, or even the girl of his dreams.

she isn't sexy. but she'll devour all the sexual implication you toss in her direction.

as cold as her heart seems, she'll rock your cradle to sleep.

then wonder, ponder, how her brain could possibly retain, any additional information,

when all she worries about is how she'll sleep.

Although all can be accomplished in a day, all can be desired in a week,

she can't pick a year to be satisfied with what's current, existing.

 She'll pretend to suffer, pretending, she knows what life could offer,

even, when, this could be,  just fine.