Young Writers Society

I have no idea what this is. It's just a paragraph. I tried to turn it into a poem at one point, but it just didn't work.

So have you figured it out yet? Cause I haven't... it being the reason I always feel like spilling my guts to you. Why I want to hand you my life on a platter and feed it to you with a fork.Why I feel the urge to e-mail you to say things like I'm eating fruity pebbles, dry, with a plastic spoon and then to tell you that it’s the way I've been eating them since I knew fruity pebbles existed, because I don't put milk on my cereal. I haven’t figured out why I tell you everything without conviction and my stories are never evanescent. I pull the same words out of my mouth, like taffy, in five different orders until I see you put the answer I want in my hand like a lucky penny you suddenly found on the floor. The problem is, you never find lucky pennies, you find buffalo nickels. You find answers worded in ways that I’d never even think of searching for. I haven’t figured out how you do it. I haven’t figured out why I love the way you walk. I haven’t figured out why when I try and picture you in my head, I can never see your face. I picture you talking to me, but it’s always with your hands. You always find your way around things. Instead of telling me I’m beautiful, you tell me I’m attractive. Instead of laughing, you smile and instead of telling me you love me, you send me e-mails in the middle of the night that say things like “I’m eating rice krispies, dry, with a plastic spoon, because I don’t put milk on my cereal either.”