It's the last day in January.

I wrote something a couple of weeks ago and hastily removed it from public view. Why? Because I want to talk to you about how shitty the living are, but I don't want this to become a platform for my venting. It seems wrong. I don't want to use you as a lens to shit talk about our friends or how they make me feel. What would be ideal is some paranormal coffee talk, but you have proven to be unavailable in the after life. How busy are you? What the fuck are you doing over yonder?
Anyways, things have taken their fair share of interesting turns over here. I have managed to become a land baroness in Detroit. I have also managed to project my desires for domesticity unto the worst possible person. Great. 

Why are people such fuckers?

I moved to Detroit. I impulsively moved to Detroit because I believed in the possibility of mutual collaboration and art making. All I'm managing to do is freak out about my last two years of decision making. I now live in a city where I don't even talk to the person closest to me here on a regular basis. What is this shit? Please send me some new people. Oh mannnn.

(removed out of fear...reposted for the sake of working through some shit...hi.)

I don't want to resent people.

I don't want people to resent me.

I want a massage. Maybe a boyfriend.

And so went November.

Here we are reevaluating everything.

Halloween, how you been?

Hey you. How's it going? Today I woke up in a bed we used to share and I wondered if any of your skin cells still littered these pillows, the mattress. I have this thought often when I sleep here. Often means always.

September.

This is what writer's block looks like.

AUGUST

FEET

AUGUST

MEW.