What am I doing.
I got shit on my shitkickers. Here's how it's been going. I get drunk. And then I crawl downstairs to smoke clove blacks. I decide I need marijuana and some tea. I take the tea in a tall glass, wet from the pilfer. I smoke the marijuana with my highcheekboned friends, beautiful and gaunt. Been going to therapy. They're starting me off on some Zoloft. Depression and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, they say. I don't believe in monogamy, I only believe in mutual contempt and desires to grope. I stopped falling love with curmudgeons this semester and I know that something is wrong. I've been making pretty good grades, don't really know how that's happening, I thought it was because I flirt mercilessly with all of my TAs but I just found out that one is gay so now I think that I have an A on merit and gosh, that is awful. Mm. I am pathetic. A boy drunkenly expressed adoration for me but will do nothing of it, I think it is because he has a younger sister who is older than me. And to think I've been making eyes at him all semester because I thought he was bold, all describing Edith Wharton's minutiae as taxing. That's not very bold, come to think of it, but I am easily charmed. I draw a lot. I write a lot. I'm too shy to show any of those things to you guys. Especially you guys.
Well here is an unfinished painting.
P.S. I'm nineteen, finishing up freshman year at NYU, cut my hair short, will learn how to be a tattoo artist next year, have no self-esteem but all of the self-involvement, cannot manage a blog, carry a tin harmonica, and am in your sides, climbing your ribs, contrasting canyons to precipices.
P.P.S. I am tired of being contemptuous. I know I want something better for myself but I don't know how to get there, really. I have to see a therapist, a cognitive behavioral therapist, a psychiatrist. I have to see myself sitting on the couch, placing myself emotionally from myself, talking about my past in a mechanical voice and sprinkling in some ums to make it sound more natural. I don't know anything anymore and that has always been my greatest fear. Since 10th grade when I couldn't stop thinking about short lists for hours. I was afraid everything would simply slip out, pulled clean, an orbicular bulb from the dirt.
Well here is an unfinished painting.
P.S. I'm nineteen, finishing up freshman year at NYU, cut my hair short, will learn how to be a tattoo artist next year, have no self-esteem but all of the self-involvement, cannot manage a blog, carry a tin harmonica, and am in your sides, climbing your ribs, contrasting canyons to precipices.
P.P.S. I am tired of being contemptuous. I know I want something better for myself but I don't know how to get there, really. I have to see a therapist, a cognitive behavioral therapist, a psychiatrist. I have to see myself sitting on the couch, placing myself emotionally from myself, talking about my past in a mechanical voice and sprinkling in some ums to make it sound more natural. I don't know anything anymore and that has always been my greatest fear. Since 10th grade when I couldn't stop thinking about short lists for hours. I was afraid everything would simply slip out, pulled clean, an orbicular bulb from the dirt.