Fuck this. I'm getting back to rouge roots. Back to exploding Red River mud on the caked heels of the time bomb that is me. I am going to be heavy. I'm gonna get really fucking heavy. Then, I'm going to unbutton my blouse and expose me. You're going to start hating me now. You're going to hate me when I say everything I think.
Let's start at the sickness.
I want to get back to that place where I am okay with lamenting. Because I believe in a savior big enough to hold my house when I drop him at the door. I need to drop Him at the door.
Once, I decided to stop eating God every day. Then, I started seeing tiny, golden, God flakes in my morning cereal. He came out of my hair and eyes and mouth. And I was confused about how He met me more when I thought
I
Had
Dropped
Him
At
The Door.
Maybe I'm hostile because I haven't written for days months days months days months days. I need an outlet. I need to let my little heart erupt.
If we are all people pouring over the brim with sin,
Let mine be
This angsty, sexual, sadness.
Like Anne.
Fuck this.
I'm driving to Kentucky today, and I am going to smoke cigarettes all the way after I purchase my long cigarette holder. And I will be fabulous. And the wind will make my hair do fabulous poofy things. And I will instagram it like I'm someone famous. Because we're all just dying with feelings of insignificance--aren't we?
