Today I felt comfortable in my mortality.
Lit a cigarette, swigged a Monster, drove without fearing
for my life.
I had to enjoy it before the anxiety crept back in.
Safety is a fleeting illusion in my world.
Even my house is
reminiscent of how solidly I live—heavy antiques anchored to the floor, thick,
dark curtains, soft cat—weighing me down so I won’t run screaming. Must be the
Taurus in me.
Aries couldn’t care less for security.
I could never be that girl who couch surfs or moves in with
a friend on a moment’s notice—every step is measured, tested until sure.
Even now the tingle of fear is taking hold.
Too much stimuli in this crowded little bar.
Fuck, there is even a group of children in here.
The coffee is burnt, drunks at the bar grate on my single,
hypersensitive nerve.
I can’t go back home, someone is there. The heavy-footed landlord doing repairs.
I don’t know where I want to be.
I am unanchored today.
What little victories or fears await me…
Death is not a dream, just an inevitability.
We need to abandon this country like rats jumping a sinking
ship.
My best ideas arrive whilst I’m driving or falling asleep.
My handwriting is shit today.
I want to marry Veronica Varlow.
Trainwreck of thoughts, no?
Maybe that’s all I am today. Everything drags.
Wearing black & combat boots, a too big coat drowning
me, exhaling smoke & draining coffee, shoegaze and jazz in my brain, I’m a
post-grunge beatnik. But the words just won’t flow as they could.
Maybe I’ll blog this—the sour coffee, my dirty hair,
fatigue-glazed eyes. I’m not turned on or plugged in. I did eat a whole fucking
pizza today, though. Plans to exercise with my friend, a play with my
twin, but I really want to drink rum, watch the BBC, and sleep on the sofa.
I’d run half a mile to be with you—and then stop because you’re
too fucking far away and I’m out of shape.
I want to spite the air, so I will swear in Japanese.
This coffee is really awful.
I feel dead in the best way today.
We need to start making ceilings out of pressed tin again,
not that creepy corkboard stuff. It seems like nothing has craftsmanship
anymore. All the pretties are cheap and made in sweatshops.
I suppose that’s why I collect Edwardian furniture. Character
and quality in a sofa, who knew!
What about the quality of people? Sometimes I feel like I’ve
lost my luster.
The minimum wage job and food stamps don’t define me. Maybe
my shitty poetry does. What does that mean on the days when the words won’t
come?
I don’t want to be buoyant, I just want to be stable.
My mood is usually down while my nerves are up. A terrible,
Holocaustic combination.
I like drawing eyes. I have sketchbooks full of the buggers.
No idea why at this age, but I am terrified of being judged.
Sometimes I think I cared less when I was an apathetic little Goth girl a
decade ago.
Sometimes I want fame and recognition, other times I want to
live in an anonymous little cottage by the woods.
A little poison can be good for you sometimes.
