it's magic

little big world!! i'm going to hell.

i want to join a circus where humans and animal are friends! and then paint rainbows with non toxic markers and edible noodle art. i want to braid a cloud's hair and whisper sonnets into the fluffy ears of a fox, explain life to the trees and finally walk hand in hand, on hands, with a horse.

what?

Quand le monde est...

boom

i'm really looking forward to summer. i miss my bike, and will be in need of something spectacular to replace it. I'm thinking gold... whoood a thought.

i have a really disgusting bruise on my arm, like a fuckin hockey puck. wha happen! I can't stop writing everything down, and have started carrying this small manual around with me. It is a field guide to fox trapping, but I'm just using the margins. in about two weeks when it's full, that shits poppin in the mail to Mr. Pointanddeliver. point and deliver meaning pointing my finger in the phonebook and then mailing a packing which will then be deliverED to unhhh s-q-nobody. nothing makes sense aloud anymore.

i want a better relationship with an animal. oh gaaawd i want a puppy.

erry day now.

In an attempt to grasp some sort of consistency in my life, I will approach ummm yeah.

I saw a heard a car accident outside my window on Thursday. It sounded like when I knocked over my grandma's curio cabinet, except there were not bits of fake hair from porcelain dolls to muffle the explosion. This separation of noises carried the effect of going down a steep hill on your bike. My stomach sinks again at the thought.

Today has been a melancholy sort of ordeal, but the sun is on my back and there are smarmy tour groups in my face, adding to the delusion that I am not alone. Also- if I see one more god damn ShopKo backpack I'm going to fucking lose it. but uhhh doooooooood.

I'm in the middle of making a feather dress right now, but am flirting with frumpy in the idea that I will either look like I'm molting, or big bird's fucking slutty hoodrat. we'll see. I can't remember how I became like this.

This week:

1. headbands

2. taxes

3. guacamole

4. Schopenhauer

n. sweater.

I am off to a nice new venture. MEGALOMANIA!!!!

forrow your dreams, son.

if only I had an attention span.

Bad Case Of Diarhea

I'm feeling particularly optimistic as of late. 

poopmouth

i would like to thank sarah for personally insulting our entire family.

frances dorset has met jeffery gook and oh my. i can't stop writing characters much too similar to myself and i feel as though that lacks imagination and effort. could it even be narcissistic, having the effect of appearing that i have no interest in writing anything other than something involving myself? write what you know, but for fuck sake... i just feel like a lot of the things that i have been experiencing lately are worthy of being examined, and developing situations on a literary plane creates layers of involvement that you can chose to explore--or not. things are changing and it feels shitty as hell, but i'm confident in the fact that i'll pull myself up by the fucking boot straps. 

and just like that someone took a shit in my throat and i've lost all focus.