fucked up over

skip over the justifications. skip the rationalizations. skip the reasons. skip the process that arrived right *here*.

and just jump in and get wet.

if i dont notice a difference, young lady, you're yanked from the game.

i've started arguing. i've stopped holding back in fear. i'm not so good at it. i become flustered easily. either i can't find my words or i'm used to never being quite sure that i'm right.. but when i *know* i'm right.. i don't enjoy the feeling of being the person to prove someone else wrong. and i also recognize the initial flash of ego hwen i'm right. the perverse enjoyment of having won an argument, and ... i don't like that

i'm going to a private party at Bimbo's on sunday. Bimbo's is a relatively hip famous club in the city. and one of the bands that will be playing is Thrash Grass music. like...speed bluegrass. i'm so excited. what a fabulous concept! thrash grass!

i've been in 23-year-old-mode too much lately. drinking bloody marys or flirting with bartenders and gettng expensive tequila shots for 1/2 price. and then getting foolish and waking up feeling more foolish. and rock star boys with nice arms make beelines for my face and i flinch and get tongued on the chin.

i've been having fun. overall.

dancing and dancing and dancing.

and fleshing out.

and flushing down.

and shedding. and wriggling out of a skin that got too tight.

leaving a heather shape on the floor.

want to try me on?

i never did write my novel last month. i was distracted by a lack of words.

i just felt. or i turned it all down to a low dim roar.

i got fucked up. i got fucked over. i fucked up. i fucked over.

i ate some future pie.

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