March 25, 2004
Heart Attack
I feel so anxious and stupid today and I couldn't tell you why. My pulse rate at rest is 84 beats per minute. I'm dying, slowly, or maybe just dead-slow.
I'm angry at books and people. I rely on one for unconditional love and I rely on the other to taketaketake and misconstrue and fuck, up and me.
Not what I expect, then, to weep all over 12-point text, my eyes pissing angry. Now what I expect for you, stroking-silent in the dark, not caring about the five pounds I've gained and the two pounds I've lost in tears crying over that book.
I'm angry at books and people. At youyouyou for being too good, too good for me and Sunday afternoons. I want a book that I've written to be just so, just the right kind of tears and tearing.
And then I'll burn it, because it was mine, and I don't want to see the satisfaction on other people's faces when they think they start to know me because of 350 words of total shit that was for me, formeformeforme and maybe a little for you. To show. That maybe. I am. Good enough.
astera at 11:08 a.m.