I will tell you something. Now.
Plants become what they are fed. Green, arguably stinky, grass grows on septic tanks. Bell peppers watered with cancerous pee cannot be eaten because of their radioactivity.
Am I a spongy plant? Here's the thing: The answer is yes and it is also no. I say things now like Jesus fucking Christ and I'm having a bad business call or I add the affix -jan to people's names and I only know one person who says each of those things. To me. When I look in a mirror before I go to the gym, there's something familiar in my reflection, and someone last week pointed out I looked exactly like their friend. I like to take things I read and see and turn them into shit I write. It's not stealing if it's all been done before again and again and again and I bet you five fucking dollars it'll be done sometime again tonight.
The older I get and the more I think the more it all makes my stomach itch and my head hurt. I'm not writing about being alone again, it'll happen someday, it's getting boring. I make to do lists daily and I laugh at bad jokes and I decide.
Jesus fucking Christ I worry about what everyone thinks about me and I apologize for almost everything that I do.
In fact, I am sorry right now, right this very second. I am sorry and I know exactly why (I just feel like shit and hate to expose anyone else to that too); it makes sense to me but probably not to you.
Last week I stood in a parking lot chasing junebugs just to hear something crunch under the weight of my aching feet. Jesus fucking Christ You should see the bottoms of my shoes.
The hairs on my head will always die after growing so long. Jesus fucking Christ I hate absolutes.
I am guilty of being cruel in some sleepwalk from years ago that I can't remember.
My shame is my own reckoning.
I'm sorry to swear. I rarely do it. It's just that I can't help but be angry.
to do:
- convince other people to see me the right way
- come up with a catchphrase to say to myself when i am not feeling it
- learn how to make spanish tiles, eventually obsess over it
- tell my mother she was right, admit that she sort of knows me
- investigate the reasons behind my sleep cycle
- admit to my therapist i am a fuckup
