A Ridiculous Journal Entry That I Might Regret Publishing: Vol 1.

this is not high quality content. this is my acutal internal monologue.

February 21st, 2017


I am a whispy, questionable form of a human being. No lines or dimensions. A receiving thing: conduit receptor feel-y gooey "awhhh" gushy subconscious pre-frontal-lacking feminine abyss "ooooooOo" sensitive banshee watery raw electric wallflower, stupid abstract siren maid that can't pay attention and can't pretend to like things or people or "people" or "things".

I'm moving somewhere where I can make use of my French lineage and linguistic ability. Montréal. But they hate Americans. So maybe I'll find a cupboard in an alley and order soup in French on Saturdays and on Sundays I'll stick my hand under the wooden panels and grab a man and make him my husband and maybe we'll get divorced twice (I'm a pain in the neck with a very pesky libido!) but we'll have kids anyway (the earth doesn't need them, shame) and he will teach our children French and I will teach them to hate America: "George Bush is a slanderous slew of syllables, utter them NEVER Jacques!"

Why don't they expose the discography of Daniel Johnston to kindergarteners? Such a pure arsenal of song and art! They'll really connect the Schizophrenic aesthetic/etiology because young children are Schizophrenic. (Jacques will be fed the sonic likes of Jacques Dutronc, bien sur).

I'm saving my money to go be a tooty little art bum somewhere else. New Orleans? (CREOLE)

You know sometimes I get real sad, real doggone sad, thinking about being a silly glass fragile person forever and ever by myself. China is made in sets, d****t! Cognitively and intellectually, I understand that everyone can make it on their own because you're born alone, you die alone, but maybe there's a whispy, questionable, feel-y, non dimensional human out there with plenty of stories to tell! Someone who toils. Must be a toiler. Must be right-brained. Must be able to adjust my crooked vertebrae. Must be able to understand taxes and numbers... but also has to struggle with them, yunno??? I could never love a "number oriented" person. Nuh uh. Too weird. Must be willing to deal with my hermit-ish-ness. Must be willing to go to Spain whenever I decide I want to go to Spain even though if I ever made the decision to spontaneously travel to Spain I would launch myself into a cataclysmic debt. Must be able to deal with my indecision between dancing around every subject under the sun that is potentially confrontational and my sporadic purged bursts of Gordon Ramsey honesty.

I need to find a tree to cry under right now, preferably near liquor store. HAH. I can go to those now! Kidding of course. The bottle makes me feel even ghostlier and like space is water and I will always somehow end up looking at a photo of Grandma and bawl hysterically (hardly knew the woman: she was a midwestern farmer, civil rights activist, and a Pisces like me).

Did I tell you why I needed a cry? Slipped my mind. Sorry. Well. Nothing causal. Nothing cinematic. It's my bi-monthly cry. I feel cry-constipated and my brain is really going fuzzy for it.

Don't worry about me, retrospective me.

I'm a loon. Or am I an actual Loon? The bird?

Who knows.

Stephen Hawking has acknowledged the possibility of the multiverse, I'm whatever I damn well please.

I'm a two-ply napkin!

HAH.

I am sober, if you can believe it. Goodnight.