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2001-04-25 :: 12:12 a.m.
I don't want to try on other people for size anymore, or a whole new life; it is lonelier than I imagined, this single girl in New York thing. My single friends have the tendency to really make me introspective and think about what the fuck it is I'm doing to myself every weekend. And all the art I've created in the meantime still doesn't cover any of this up. It makes nothing better to ignore or busy myself, I just get reminded why I'm doing it. Makes sense? The art's pretty cool though. Shirts and movies and stories and drawings. Maybe I can sell it as part of a collective, like, here is my hurt documented, chronologically. Fifty bucks. Some people get really lucky. My luck has been temporarily misplaced. I can pretty it up with fancy, poetic acrobatics or I can just say it and not worry: You know what? (and this is the freaking everloving truth) I miss your life and your big heart, I miss you big time exponentially good Goddammit and I know you know and I'm scared to death sweetheart of the without you forever part because here it is the biggest truth and the biggest vulnerability ever: I still love you more than I feel I can explain right now. Tomorrow, I will feel better, I promise. I will eat some chocolate covered matzoh and get my blood sugar to level. And then go on a date.
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