July 6th, 2018

  So this is a first for me. I’m not the type to journal, or any of that stuff. I got into therapy yesterday, and that was a shitshow. Apparently my childhood was “highly traumatic” and “not normal”, so a one time evaluation spiraled into a twice-a-week arrangement with some daft cunt certified by CDAM. I suppose I feel better after talking about it, but not enough for some random to poke around in my personal life. She told me that I should journal my thoughts, events, and feelings. Said that it helped somehow. Something about cognitive distortions? I wasn’t listening too intently. But waxing poetic on paper is actually fun, so I’ll probably go along with it.

  She also said to jot down basic information from time to time, so I guess I’ll start with that. My name is Saffron Miller. Born in ‘94. I’m an African American woman, 5’11, and a natural redhead. I don’t know my real parents. From what I’ve been told, I was abandoned in trash can shortly after my birth. And my adoptive parents hit said trashcan with their car, finding a very not dead newborn screaming on the hood. Charming, I know. They named me Saffron after my hair. I grew up in the hellhole that is now New York, but my family moved down south a while back, closer to my Dad’s family and all.

  I decided to get an apartment a year ago, a two hour drive north of my grandma’s house Jefferson County. It’s been… a journey. It’s a bit lonely, but the space and privacy is too good to pass up. I am a little bit poor, and by that I do mean a lot a bit poor. Like, I got my sofa for $50 on Facetome Marketplace, and it still smells like cigarettes after the third steam cleaning. The place is barely decorated, cramped, poorly insulated, and dimly lit no matter what bulbs you use, but it’s mine.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The Cicadas are singing tonight. Poor buggers are wailing in the heat, singing in that loud, pulsing rhythm. It’s assuring, sometimes. Hearing some semblance of life outside that isn’t trying to kill me. No footsteps, no growling. No screams or wails or whispers. Just some insects, chirping away in the broiling blackness that is a summer night. It’s been hot and humid for the last week. And tonight, it’s cloudy. Burbling gray blankets the sky, the stars and Selene's Perch completely blotted out in dark cumulonimbus. The weatherman said that there might be some rain soon. I didn’t hear him finish though, another damn emergency alert cutting through his program.

  Currently, we’re on another lock down. Another Strider is skulking around, the CDAM app is like a live wire. Constant updates and questions. But on the bright side, I don’t have to go to work tomorrow. Things have gotten so bad, the governor put out a state of emergency. So right now, I’m on my shitty little couch, sweating like I just ran a marathon. My hair frizzing up like I’m standing next to a power plant. My A/C got smashed a while back, and my landlord hasn't gotten around to getting me a replacement. Right about now, me and the cicadas are real similar. I starting to understand why they’re always yelling like that. If I could, I would also be complaining about this damn heat. Then again, that is what I’m doing right now.