I went into the grocery store really scared. Or, I came out scared. Really is such an awful word. Awful is an awful word. It is so hypocritical. Hypocritical is hypocritical. I think I felt this nearer than usual, like it was fucking me slowly, in the--at the--grocery store location. Kroger. Monster. Or maybe I am just connecting the dots for my own lubricative approval.
Now I am thinking of who might read this. I am thinking of you, and you know who you are.
I should be a grown up now. I should. I could. I could go to the gas station and buy gas. But I don't have a car. Or I could rather insincerely put my brother to bed. What a put-off. I can't stop thinking about sex. I think it ties in with the fact that my memories are mixed in paint with my dreams. I thought so, that I had told whoever whatever and so whatever was sensible, but it was a dream. It was a waste. She didn't hear me.
So now, I forgot all my intentions. Or I just don't care.
I am afraid to really--the grocery store is, comfortable. I can say something that doesn't sound so narcississtic. What? There are people outside. They are horrible. They do not have pointy ears and I want to hit them. They could be my punching bags. Why can't they be gone? I want to say, quiet, or decent, but I despise both of those descriptions. Again and again. But I live here. I am living and they are just littering in the park and hurting girls and ruining punk and saying they don't care. They do, they do.
They don't. So, at the store there was this guy and I knew him and I think I scared him. I didn't say hello because I don't especially like him and I've never ever said hello and--i mean, he moved. He walked away. I'm a little self centered at the moment, but I am enjoying it so thoroughly. So what do meaningful people blog about? Probably meaningless shit. I mean shit is shit, and being a meaningful person does not include writing meaningful blogs. Note the sarcasm in my voice. I mean, relax, really, darling. They only see themselves when they look at you, right? Right?
I think I have turrets. I think I could be good at it. Trust me. No one would know. And if they did, I could love them.
This poem isn't very good, but I did write it ten minutes ago and that is called being Present. Like yoga.

And as for the matter of factness that is your straight hair on your high cheekbones and
Long lashes
Like the right isn’t yours or mine
It just lies there
Waiting for someone to save it
For someone to say, fuck
You aren’t beautiful
And that’s okay
It’s okay to blame me
For any feelings you can’t say
Or noises that make you jump out of the sewer angry and alive and crawling out of your skin
How far can you go
lover of valentines
How far would you make
out of nothing like
I would when I am blue but at least I mean it when I screw you over
You are my four leaved clover
Nothing is so perfect
As you
It is nothing to me
And love comes in waves
Over the summer time I forget him and by the time I remember I can’t love him it is
Too late
I hear the trees banging on the window and I wonder how I feel about it
Is this what narcissism feels like and if so I think vampires could grow like the beanstalk in the story without any beans at all
Nothing is so perfect as the beanstalk and the fall dehydration says it all
Anais nin would love me if I showed up at the ball wearing nothing but my feelings and a stalker’s ritual
Is not born but cut off
Like abandonment of flesh
I guess it’s for the best
Amen

I want to make love to Anais Nin. No i don't. doesn't matter.