Don't blush when I rip you open
I almost threw up in the middle of my sociology class on Wednesday. Our teacher was explaining cultural relativism and got into the topic of FGC/FGM. Even though he spoke of it generally, the more he kept on, the more I felt my head getting lighter and the knot in my stomach getting tighter. It was strange since I’m usually not bothered by grotesque things -hello, I own a mirror!- for the most part, I’m fascinated by them. I guess, to me, the clit is such a precious thing to waste -- and I sure as hell would never want anyone mutilating mine.
As of right now, I have straight A’s in all of my classes. I’m going to keep this up, because it’s the only thing I have going for me.
A little girl was killed three blocks away. A neighbor was pulling into his driveway and accidentally hit her while she was on her scooter. There was so much traffic in the neighborhood while I was trying to get to school Tuesday afternoon. I was frustrated and pissed, I had no idea a little girl was dead.
It just ties in so nicely since I’ve been surrounding myself with so much death lately. I swear, Six Feet Under has invaded my entire psychology. I have to remind myself that these are fictional people and -as much as I wish it were true- the book, Charlotte Light and Dark, isn’t real either.
I’m also in the beginning stages of my Goodbye Letter (non-fiction, bitches!). It’s going to be cool, I’m challenging Sylvia Plath’s “dying is an art” thesis. I’m even incorporating images and cartoons, hand-drawn my yours truly. I draw a slammin’ Jesus, although I wish I didn’t have to.
Then today with the notes I had to take in Health class. Oh dear.
Everything in my life is set by dates and appointments.
To all the mothers that come to Target: I hate your babies. Yes, I may smile at them as they coo and spit and terrorize the aisles, but the smile is plastic, because, like I said, I hate your babies! I don’t care about the cute pig-tails or the denim overalls, to me, your 18 month old daughter is a stupid bitch and your little son may as well be a cocksucker.
A. My poetry sucks.
B. I'm British.
C. I lead the ladies to believe that I'm Bill Pullman (do you notice the striking resemblance? are you busy Friday night?) and when the truth is let out, a room full of carbon monoxide sounds dreamy.
D. All of the above.
Sorry girls, but I ain't no murderer. Ya heard?
As of right now, I have straight A’s in all of my classes. I’m going to keep this up, because it’s the only thing I have going for me.
A little girl was killed three blocks away. A neighbor was pulling into his driveway and accidentally hit her while she was on her scooter. There was so much traffic in the neighborhood while I was trying to get to school Tuesday afternoon. I was frustrated and pissed, I had no idea a little girl was dead.
It just ties in so nicely since I’ve been surrounding myself with so much death lately. I swear, Six Feet Under has invaded my entire psychology. I have to remind myself that these are fictional people and -as much as I wish it were true- the book, Charlotte Light and Dark, isn’t real either.
I’m also in the beginning stages of my Goodbye Letter (non-fiction, bitches!). It’s going to be cool, I’m challenging Sylvia Plath’s “dying is an art” thesis. I’m even incorporating images and cartoons, hand-drawn my yours truly. I draw a slammin’ Jesus, although I wish I didn’t have to.
Then today with the notes I had to take in Health class. Oh dear.
Everything in my life is set by dates and appointments.
To all the mothers that come to Target: I hate your babies. Yes, I may smile at them as they coo and spit and terrorize the aisles, but the smile is plastic, because, like I said, I hate your babies! I don’t care about the cute pig-tails or the denim overalls, to me, your 18 month old daughter is a stupid bitch and your little son may as well be a cocksucker.
A. My poetry sucks.
B. I'm British.
C. I lead the ladies to believe that I'm Bill Pullman (do you notice the striking resemblance? are you busy Friday night?) and when the truth is let out, a room full of carbon monoxide sounds dreamy.
D. All of the above.
Sorry girls, but I ain't no murderer. Ya heard?