finals week

 

 

the final week
of finals week

 

final. final. final. I think its all pretty much final after this. 

 

I got so much great material for a webseries called The Douchey Professor; starring my music history teacher. I really want to write his real name because I love the nerdy cadence of it. but that’s just not that nice. I think I’ve done enough damage already by taking notes on him in his class. 

 

I might have some carpal tunnel in my brain. 

 

Getting displaced a lot around the holidays is starting to get to me. I called Big and I missed him real hard. I got daring. not that playful at all. oh well. I feel lonely. that’s all. and that’s honest. And I wonder if that’s why I call him or why I confess my heart out at 1AM. I can tell I might totally freak him out. I’ve also concluded sometimes I could possibly, actually be crazy.

 

But then I came back to reality and I realized that I am not some one who tends to get this hung up on people. Like, I see people. I just don’t really ……. love those other people. I don’t want to run out west just to be with them & have a fuckin weed garden and I write all my poetry about the mountains for those years of my life. and about love.

we’d have a food garden too, I hope. 

Talking Spook Talk; I have an Uncle Kevin the friendly Car Ghost, who my friend Sarah Flann confirmed. Tom insists I develop my own car fragrance line called “Year Old Beer” for Women for Cars. 

 

Our charts compared are pretty solid. scoff if you must, weedy witchcraft. but its magnetic man. historic. them greeks. we read their philosophy and laugh at their astrology? its mythical.

 

 

subliminal

 

xx

help wanted

 

 

please apply for the social media position
at the internship I’m working at.

 

fuckingbitches. I spelt magezine <– wrong. and I shouted FUCK so loud as soon as I hit post. but my boss doesn’t fucking know that! she doesn’t also know that my life has been falling apart pretty much since October and I have been trying already REALLY hard to keep my soul on dry ground.

treading water, staying afloat.
watching the waves watch me drown.

and poetry, man. that’s where its at. I don’t know truthfully where I’m going to move next. but I need to get the fuck out of CT. that’s for certain. BK is looking like a good prospect – even though my dad doesn’t want me there. but no one wants me at home anyway so – whatdafuckthen does anybody care?

 

BUELLER, BUELLER? anybody fucking BUELLER?

 

there’s me & there’s my art. and there’s that little nook in the side room where I talk it all out with myself. talk myself down off the cliff. because there’s a steep one right on the neck of that bottle. goddammit thanksgiving is going to be hard.

 

I should at least bring a flask, even if I do go to my parents’ house. I am dreading it for reasons anybody who doesn’t know a Borderline won’t understand. That’s the great mystery my friends, that’s the unclinical diagnosis. the clinical one is schizophrenia, but its more than that.. she’s a little bit more on each end, than that.

 

I can do it. I can do it.

 

Unofficial, unannounced, impromptu meeting last night about twofiftystudios, my comrade & I met up at a shitty bar and talked it out, about filming next week (which is greaaaat because I have a tech class I need footage for) and the chicken is coming before the egg. that’s all for that speak.

 

triple double plus good. someone should make a move for the 50th anniversary of 1984. I think I want to do that.

 

I FUCKING CALLED IT. hollywood, stop stealing my ideas. lol, I really honestly get fucking mad when you do. workaholicssss… you jerks nabbed me clean out of workspace confessions. but its fine. wc is way darker.

sorry – is this called “storiesofastalkergirl”?

 

its not.

 

I’m gonna go make a tuna

 

x x