Friday, February 5, 2010


I don't tend to remember much of my dreams lately, except atmospheric moods, if they frightened me, if they featured my first high-school boyfriend all lithe and acne-faced instead of marine-bulked and dead-eyed like now, not representing himself at all but some kind of reset button, a tender erasure of damages to hulls.

I never sold the space in my head like a fine and proper realtor. Instead I let it be conquered by seething waves of whatever, whenever. I found the medications (television, alcohol, etc.) that would turn it off, but I could never stop the typhoon. I probably do not appear on the surface to be too at odds, who knows.

I cannot trust others' assessments of myself. You seem _______. I noticed that ______.

I began the year with the wrong head on. So full of terror and longing. Dire words for dire times. Regression. Stagnation. Embarrassment. Boredom. Self-loathing.

The concept of loving myself is so foreign and silly, like "deciding" to believe in a deity. I am working on it though, night and day. I am getting my tiger teeth on. As all the 6ft. drag queens say, "How'n the hellll you gonna love somebody else?"

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