pb

i don't know, maybe i've grown up a bit. or a lot. the damaged-doll women i still adore. it's the fake drama and obvious narcissism, the constant over-analyzing of the mundane, the play-by-play of the moments which could be better spent doing that i can no longer stomach.

sometimes i want to ask them if they're anything but the sum total of their liters of ink and metal-filled holes. i mean, the image so carefully built is supposed to project or hint at something bigger, something more real, some sort of end-product, right? the image itself isn't supposed to be the point. it's like religion, you're supposed to be changing the insides and outsides to eventually arrive at some sort of halcyon perfection; the religion is the road, not the destination.

where are we going with all this? what's it all for, all the constant inwardly-focused energy and concealed cries for attention?

i used to be the worst about this. maybe i burned myself out. maybe i was such a head dweller that i finally became sick of myself and just moved the fuck out. out into the world, where we all really are.. i guess we realize that at different times in our lives.