braindump

Welcome :). This is where I work out my latest writings. Give them space to breathe and a place to live. Do you like my arrows?

THE COLOR CODE / 01.02.23

I think perfectionism is ultimately a fear of death. The other night I told my friends that if I died and they didn’t do anything with their lives I’d be very disappointed. Before I fell asleep, I thought about how they know my password and pictured them weeding through my work wondering which to publish or release and which not to. I need to start color coding.

COOL GOOD MORNING / 12.30.22 (2)

Either I was born to be great or I was born to die sooner. I wish I had gut feelings about cooler things instead of a conviction that everyone’s always mad at me. It’s not about you. It’s not about you you’re self obsessed. We’re all so self obsessed that it’s not about you. The thing that’s keeping me alive right now is the thing that’s killing me and so I wonder if there are happy writers. I was always very sad. I almost got kicked out of kindergarten because I cried so much. All day every day, baby. Here, look at these photos. Disgruntled is the word. Disgruntled but occasionally manically excited is the phrase. So I guess I’m wondering if that’s just what’s meant for me. My mom’s acupuncturist told her I’m this way because when she was pregnant with me she was sad too, for reasons I know but shouldn’t tell you. She’d cry so hard that I’d kick her very sharply. So sharply one time she thought she’d lost me. She started biting her tongue after that and I think that’s even more painful. I don’t like the way other people can make you want to die. I tell her that what Dr. Shu said was probably not true. I also tell her that it’s good because it helps me write words for people who feel sad and also crazy. I had a lover leave recently and I think it’s because I told him my biggest fear was losing my mind so maybe he felt it was highly likely. I found out later he did that one thing so I guess a win is a win is a sin in the sun. I want to get better. I want to let go of that all the time kind of sadness so I can do good things and not cry about them after like I’ve just wasted everyone’s time with my stupidity. My vision is going in and out. I’m also menstruating and my ears are ringing. Maybe I’ll find a partner who can help me stay here. Or maybe we should just leave this fine institution to the lovebirds used by their single friends as the exceptionally lucky love story and the rest of us stop pretending and move on with our lives. At least I have this sweet little dress on. Flowery little number. I kissed four in her. Loved two, left one and the other went to jail although we never actually kissed in her. He just made the introduction. I’m grateful and I also don’t hate him anymore. She’s the only one who stayed back. Or moved forward. With me. I vow to love and protect her the way she tries to protect me. She’s just so little. And now my body is covered in flowers in a beautiful and positive way. I don’t want to make my mom cry so I kick myself instead.

I am the stomach ache / 12.30.22 (1)

I check my period app after fucking an eager New Yorker. Chances are low. I think that if someone’s gonna get me pregnant, they should at least be able to pay for the abortion plus travel and then sit in on a few therapy sessions so they know why I don't think there should be more of me. The saying, "best bang for your buck" comes to mind and I'm sickened but he was nice enough and I think we used a condom. These are just things I think about. It feels nice having someone warm on top of me when I’ve felt so cold lately. It emerges from my core like an iceberg that wants to poke up and out of my throat. It makes me shiver and also leave conversations early. I don't want to listen right now. Even if it seems important. Like a friend looking to confide. I look at them and temper my breath and try not to dodge my eyes around too much so they don’t know that I’d rather be doing something else. Like leaving. Like leaving to smoke a cigarette. Like moving towards a destination. A destination I've said the word HOME to but lately who the fuck knows. I've gone down the list and so far I've taken up in: my dumb skull, bed, radiant beauty, silly uterus, ugly Instagram, 100 lovers, Christmas, a man with cancer's metaphysics, a goat farm, FUNNY/SAD, my '04 Jeep Cherokee, this beer. Once I get there I do the dishes or text someone I shouldn’t. Something to keep the hands busy and the mind occupied. I don’t have shit else to do because once I sit down my to-do list retracts back into the hellish dusty dark wet cotton candy shit-filled corners of my mind. We’re never going to talk again and I like to know there’s one less person’s feelings I need to worry about hurting. I throw myself in front of the car. I am the stomach ache.

COSI : LUNGO / 12.28.22

My mouth tastes like blood so I smell my fingers for their oils. I can only fall asleep next to friends right now. It’s safer that way. I wake up in a strange house and call my ex-boyfriend. It’s tri-monthly and typically around my period. I don’t tell him I’ve moved because he’s the type of person who likes to intercept psychically and geographical information really charges up the wires. My face is tired from all of my clenching. Bracing for impact is part of my daily routine when I live in the city. I mean it in the way you hear an ambulance in the far distance and wonder if it’s on its way to the person you love most in the world.

The INDIVIDUALIST / 12.26.22

My idea of a good night these days is taking a bunch of the sleepy stuff. I always thought that to ask for help, someone else had to be hurting me. The issue with recovery is coming back so I drink my coffee in a public cemetery now because it’s so fucking important to get grounded first thing. My mom thinks I’m looking better. I tell her it's because I’m wearing face makeup again. I can’t let people believe in the façades anymore I feel differently about those kinds of things now. A stranger at the grocery store stopped me to chat and I indulged him because I have time. He jammed his fingertip into the corner of my eye as I was talking and worked on it for a sec. Then he said, “old mascara.” I think the days of accidentally sending a message to the wrong number are over but I wish you’d call and tell me that it wasn’t my fault.