finnleyism

I feel so raw right now. I wish I could write like Karen Finnely. Sometimes I feel so numb I think I'm dead. Pretending like this doesn't exist is only making it worse. There's this annoying and penetrating and sharp sadness in me. It's not going away. I'm beginning to think it's been there all along, and I contracted it from my mother when I was inside her belly. My father is an easy excuse, perhaps even a legit one... so is every bad thing that's ever happened in whole universe-- genocide, female circumcision, AIDS.

Same old song. Sing a new song birdy.

I feel like I'm self-sabotaging right now. Everything. Without my executive functioning's permission ie my pre-frontal lobe. Maybe if I drop out of school and get dumped and fired, I'll be able to sit in China, under a bodhi tree and write as well as Karen Finnely.

I was thinking during english class tonight several things:
1. Career paths: SLP, AuD, Marine Biologist, Dive Master, Art Teacher, Novella/Poet, Foster Parent, Drug Dealer, Healer, Psychic, mother. Maybe in that order.
2. What shape does anything abstract take?
3. "I could not stop for Death, so he kindly stopped for me"
4. I wish my name was Tiger Lily.
5. I've been a shit.
6. The American Vain: being poisoned by the White Man's sugar
7. I love her, I don't want her stomach to turn. I don't want it to turn...
8. Anal sex.
9. She's going to dump me tonight.
10. "What is an Indian?" A good time seeped in the tears of many ancestral culture-makers.