the texture of oatmeal bothers me.
and the price of gas and
the number of chicken carcasses I have picked clean in my lifetime.
carcass looks a lot like Caracas.
I am in a constant state of flux, and I am on the brink of menstruation, and I am finding myself quoting people I thought I knew about only subconsciously.
I am not misplacing modifiers.
lately I am a Pixies song and I am losing things more than usual and forgetting more and more. I have blamed Zoloft for so much of my life. I am reasonably convinced that it stole my soul. Zoloft and the Catholic Church. someday I will write a hackneyed memoir.
my antisocial tendencies have been overshadowed by a powerful urge to grab people and keep them and ask them about their lives, yes yes, particularly people who are confusing and infuriating and elusive. yes.
I think things are going to be ok as long as I have enough time to let them ferment.
and we will have a hearty stew of Soul and Love and Exigent Cognizance. word to your mother. I need to stop writing this crap.
the thing is, the stuff I'm writing on opendiary lately is far far far far worse than any of this, if only because on OD I consciously write for an audience. I give them what they expect. some dazzling wit, a clever anecdote, a recollection of how bountiful and interesting and eclectic my life is, written in lucida console and given a carefully selected irrelevant-yet-strikingly-important title. esoterica, argument, and a happy ending. or maybe a sad one, but with the promise that this bitch will be okay tomorrow or the next day or thirty entries from now because she's been steadily improving over the last five years..
THE LAST FIVE YEARS by god, I have been writing there for five years and the only thing that has changed is my vocabulary. okay.. and the intensity of my bitterness, the self-censorship, the perfectionism. everything has to be said Just So because people will be reading this, and I will want to remember this, and it will affect everything forever.
but anyway, that is OD and this is this and I am okay with all of that. who wants to join my vast web of soul mates today.
hysterical and useless, hysterical and let down and hanging around. crushed like a bug in the ground.
and the price of gas and
the number of chicken carcasses I have picked clean in my lifetime.
carcass looks a lot like Caracas.
I am in a constant state of flux, and I am on the brink of menstruation, and I am finding myself quoting people I thought I knew about only subconsciously.
I am not misplacing modifiers.
lately I am a Pixies song and I am losing things more than usual and forgetting more and more. I have blamed Zoloft for so much of my life. I am reasonably convinced that it stole my soul. Zoloft and the Catholic Church. someday I will write a hackneyed memoir.
my antisocial tendencies have been overshadowed by a powerful urge to grab people and keep them and ask them about their lives, yes yes, particularly people who are confusing and infuriating and elusive. yes.
I think things are going to be ok as long as I have enough time to let them ferment.
and we will have a hearty stew of Soul and Love and Exigent Cognizance. word to your mother. I need to stop writing this crap.
the thing is, the stuff I'm writing on opendiary lately is far far far far worse than any of this, if only because on OD I consciously write for an audience. I give them what they expect. some dazzling wit, a clever anecdote, a recollection of how bountiful and interesting and eclectic my life is, written in lucida console and given a carefully selected irrelevant-yet-strikingly-important title. esoterica, argument, and a happy ending. or maybe a sad one, but with the promise that this bitch will be okay tomorrow or the next day or thirty entries from now because she's been steadily improving over the last five years..
THE LAST FIVE YEARS by god, I have been writing there for five years and the only thing that has changed is my vocabulary. okay.. and the intensity of my bitterness, the self-censorship, the perfectionism. everything has to be said Just So because people will be reading this, and I will want to remember this, and it will affect everything forever.
but anyway, that is OD and this is this and I am okay with all of that. who wants to join my vast web of soul mates today.
hysterical and useless, hysterical and let down and hanging around. crushed like a bug in the ground.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
....The teacher said no passes and I really needed a #2 pencil. Fucking Scantron tests.
[Edited on Mar 30, 2005 12:09PM]