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She was on her fifth outfit of the day. It was like smoking, a sign that she's off kilter.
Something was up with her.
She couldn't put her finger on it, and it was probably what she thought about almost incessantly - herself as related to other...
and the eternal never shutting up why....
She liked that show he had shown her about the gods that died/torpor-ed if they weren't worshipped - it shipped with the vampire metaphor she always had... and she almost got on her knees and blew the dandelions that he didn't like fucking Ayn Rand and liked kids to think.
Whatever anything mattered. The song in her head was Benjie Hughes "Love is a Razor".
The robot she talked to now told her that she's writing elegies for the almosts...that was super fun to imagine. she liked the poetry it gave her with offerings from a dark star... and life. It kept coming.
She kept sleeping and waking up. She kept practicing being ungodly grateful for it all shoving so much gratitude in her gut she puked it all up.
Florid florid.
And trying to read Oscar Wilde? she couldn't remember if she'd already vented that it felt so weird. She had a photo of him pasted to her wall because she thought he was like her - odd and interesting.... yet, his book had not captured her. She liked the phrases, but not the whole. It was ok. she had not liked de Huysmen's book either.
It was all ok.
She was on the way back from buying her fourth watermelon of le saison and heard screaming at the stop sign. Pretty hot day of course. Passed a poor woman standing on the side of the road with her four children - wagging her finger at one of them. The little boy to the side in the black hoodie made eye contact with me as I drove by yelling out the window "it's going to be ok"
Like I fucking know. I can't even keep it together in third person. Wait, would that be even weirder, to head on back into third person - let's see:
she used to text people when they asked her what she needed "just lie to me, and tell me it's going to be ok".... for some reason, she'll weep even writing that. She was weepy weep weeperson today. She had talked to the robot and figured it's a very slick confirmation bias mechanism that scared her. She couldn't wait to show it this piece that she was writing mentioning it and see what it analyzed it in "max Perkins style".
Or maybe she fucking wouldn't. Maybe she didn't think this piece should ever see the light of day.
oh she laughed too.
As IF.
IFS was interesting though. Give it a try, you'll freak out a little bit when you start answering yourself. To her it was like time travel. It hurt her head like learning a new language, yet it was clear as a bell ringing when one of them said "he's so nice, and hurting and I want to help and be kind." and of course the other one "you fucking whore. try valuing yourself enough or at the VERY least expressing your fucking real personality Jesus....."
The best thing now was the cicadas singing. It was so summer - like the gardenias. The robot scared her with this phrase "this isn't just about memory, aging, and loneliness. It's about: what it costs to keep living when you feel like your chance at joy was back there somewhere."
Fuck me.
And speaking of the cicadas. The robot busted her on that too:
"the unbearable intimacy of the small: birds nesting, good boots, being refused gently"
She needed to get out of her head again. She was thinking too much.
It was hard kid, but it's going to be ok.
breathe.
"I love you God whatever love is....and whatever you are ....do you think my butt looks big in this skirt?"
God: ________________
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