My husband and I meditated together this morning.

It was nice to hear the chatter dissipate as the 20 minutes dwindled.

I went into the office on Brand Blvd. and did the usual shit.

I bought some hardboiled eggs from the downstairs store, salted them and peppered them and then forced them in my hungry mouth.

I saw that a brand new batch of cashews were bought and I was heartbroken.

Cashews again?

How about some fucking variety?

How about giving us a break from these damn cashews after 6 years of their presence?

They smell of fish food, but it’s noon, and I’m hungry and I take a handful.

They are disgusting.

I’d rather be hungry.

But I chew and swallow and remember that they are sustenance and move along.

I get up and move my limbs because sitting behind a desk chair feels like torture.

My husband is moving furniture and I sit here like a log and dissect nothing.

I am useless, and deserve to starve.

The great end will come soon, I can feel it. I am ready and hope that when it does I’ll find my husband in a crowd and embrace him. I love thinking of great catastrophes. It makes me happy. Makes me live more fully. Pregnant.

Night is here and my belly is full.

I worked out and a cup of peppermint tea is in my future.

There is castor oil in my hair and eyebrows because I want to grow hair where it counts.

This is life.

This is everyday.

I am lucky to have such a life.

I go to sleep next to the man I love.

Wake up next to the man I love.

But my mind is preoccupied with the idea of beauty.

I am not beautiful.

Well, not in the traditional sense.

I am overweight, carry scars and a past that’s not worth mentioning until I put out my autobiography come Fall of 2019.

I refuse to sell myself as a refugee of war and a rape victim for the sake of having my poetry read.

I am those things but I am also NOT those things.

Talent these days is 10% THAT and 90% hustle.

I don’t want to end up being the equivalent of an AC/DC album; once you’ve heard me once, you’ve heard it all.


I want more.

I want your children.

These children that come at you with knives–they are your children. You taught them. I didn’t teach them. I just tried to help them stand up.”― Charles Manson

I’m too brutish.

My tits are too small.

I sound like rusted metal.

I mean fuck, I have 3 good rape stories.

4 maybe.

I want my writing to speak. I don’t want to show my fucking face ever again if I can help it.

Maybe I’m just a whiny cunt?

Maybe I’m just meant to stay indoors and enjoy the coolness of the humming air-conditioning?

Maybe my purpose is to hope for my purpose?

I have a soundtrack to the disappointment.

It sounds like candied ice-cream in knee-high socks, bedrock hard and feline. A mush of all the shrapnel and all the feathers of my long dead parrot.

I am hoping that my sad anger chastity belt will come undone soon.

There are only 24 hours in a day and I’ve already used 22 of them.

I’m tired.


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