november 9 2024

Sometimes I’m afraid of my own mind. I’ve barely got a handle on what goes on in there. Every single light is switched on and has been for weeks at a time. The bulbs are hot. The air is electric. The rooms are filled to the brim. A miracle - there is somehow always more space.

I miss Ativan and empty head. I honestly wish I did drugs. I try to sleep through the days but I can’t. I start a puzzle instead. It keeps me off my phone and focused on the important things - like how to get revenge and that special feeling deep inside when my boyfriend sticks his thumb in my butt.

There was an election this week, apparently. The Democrats lost. Shocker. “Haters and losers” is such an evil genius turn of phrase and Baudrillard kind of ate with Simulacra and Simulation (1981) so I’m not surprised. The days get a little colder and I’m at a dinner with Malia Obama. I sit beside her and talk shit about the music industry. She tells me stories about her dad. Everyone at this table is laughing and having a good time. I try to think about nothing.

It’s November and the Grammy nominations are in. I go to my friend’s baby shower. I quit sugar. I go to the spa. I spend obscene amounts of money on shoes and moisturizer. Every time I see myself in the mirror, I’m asking: “Girl, what is you doing fr fr?”

I’ve always been both silly and sincere. I don’t want to take anything seriously anymore but I can’t help myself. I’m a nerd with 19% body fat, excess libidinal energy and a lot of enthusiasm for lipstick and computer. I love art too much. I love life too much. I’d die before I stop giving a fuck. I’d die before I’d have to give it all up.