(no subject)
It appears I am getting a handle on (ha! PUN! No wonder I am the Poet Laureate. *looks in mirror* Ahh I am so beautiful.) that whole materialization thing. I realized this after my 23rd orgasm with _emilydickinson last night. Now I can grasp whatever the hell I want. Oh Yeah. Lookout, pretty lady poets, here I come!
I only checked the gas stove 13,333 times today. My psychiatric sessions have been helping.
Also, I have finally bought The Journals of Sylvia Plath, which of course, I wrote the foreword to. How enlightening! I barely knew ANY of the stuff that was in there. I was always too busy flirting with poetry groupies and banging Assia and shamelessly ignoring Sylvia's needs to pay her any mind. "Genius." Bah! I would say.
Damn old photos make me look like Bill Pullman.
The thing is, now I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really detest myself. That's why I went to see a shrink.
Death changed me alot. It gave me a conscience.
Maybe I should make up for my diabolicalness somehow. That is, when I am not busy getting laid. Any suggestions?