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.
FUCK THAT.
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.
