I think I’ll write until my computer dies. Every rule I give myself recently feels secretly arbitrary because it never amounts to anything I can show for. It’s October 23rd. It’s my 28th birthday. I thought I wouldn’t feel melancholy on my birthday this year because I’ve been feeling rather alright. I got a job. My relationship with J is better than ever. I’m working towards my mfa thesis. I think of anthroposophy when I let myself, I miss my peers. I miss watching people’s faces, the way they can become ugly so quickly, the most. Tabitha sent me a video she rendered of a silver mushroom dancing outside of a Wendy’s. She sent it right at midnight my time which I realized must have been 6 am for her. A knot formed in my throat. I am so lucky in a world with no time for luck. Pinnacle of history in which I am forced to see myself as shitty episodes. They say that people with anxiety tend to watch shows and movies they’ve already watched because they know exactly what to expect. They know how the story ends.

This year has been especially blessed and crazed. One of the best years of my life if I can be so crass. I’m becoming a woman that maybe I’m not so fond of but a woman who I like just fine enough for now. My body is changing recently and I’m not sure I know how to feel. I want to feel real guilty for it but I can’t bring myself to that level of vanity anymore. Affinity is a curved line. J half heartedly started to sing me happy birthday. I coiled, I did that thing where I’m half coy about it. He only got to “Happy birt–.”

I want to hear my animal senses more clearly. I want to be static against sentiments that are eager to please. I want to lie down on a stone that resembles consumption. See oil slicks as sea. Have oral sex on mossy patches. Adorn your neck with my goodnight voice. I want to have a good night voice. To balance on logs while it rains outside and your friends tell you that they’re okay and so they are.


This can’t be the life.