Plathological

Look How I Update, Look How Nice

I just walked home, watched a couple scream and fight and moon each other on Government. There was a great distance between them-- literally, I mean: about half a block, or so. I wonder if they even saw each others' butt cheeks?? I've kind of had enough of downtown and the people in it. The details of the walk home are ecstatically terrifying and fantastic. I’m just too emotionally exhausted to recount them at any greater length . . seeing as my head exploded today. Mostly from a slew of interpersonal connections and the bathroom stall next to mine being built so improperly that it didn’t have the ability to close: this was the second sign of the apocalypse (more on that later, briefly).

Once home, I ate two apples. Insignificant, save for the fact that they came to my mouth after having a punch-packed Caesar-and-a-half at the Cherry Bank, getting three signs that the apocalypse is coming tomorrow, and, from my vantage point on top of the pink covers, watching a movie about two young girls stabbing a desperately old lady to death. I haven't seen that movie since I was fourteen, the age of the girls in the film.

Earlier, went to Whitespot with Emily and Bulford and had amazing chocolate cake and amazingly stoned conversation that I can barely remember two strands of (something about a Napkin restaurant--still don't get the allure, but hearing it calmed me and my sketched shakes, at the time). For my sensibilities, Bulford is probably the best and worst person to get stoned with (he fucks with my head and finds it hilarious. Bloody demon child), though such a conceit is most likely a huge compliment anyway considering all our mindmaps (a handful of sweet n low packets, kind of stolen). The death theme of the day may well lead to rebirth. God, I'm shaking and full of the complicity of peeling skin. I'm sure Larry from Saskatchewan is too-- in those cozy Cadillac seats of his. He stroked my face and stroked my face in the smoking room before, after and during the time it took him to tell me I was going to die. Needless to say, going to sleep will feel so fucking good in a few moments.

& it’s true, Xavier: my closets friends are, by default, my idols since I can only truly hang with people I fucking well admire enough that they actually shake me up and out of myself (which you & Bulford do every time I see you)--otherwise, around those who are any less than I am constantly in shock and awe at how little it takes to be this massively impressive Ultra Human Artistic Bitch. And as I’ve mentioned a few times this week apropos the low and basic level of thinking required in my Commerce classes (it hurts my head to state the painfully obvious, point by intricate point), it’s tiring, bloody well exhausting to interact with those who do not stimulate and challenge me. I end up playing up my personality, magnifying my traits (anyone who knows me well and was with me tonight would have witnessed it), just to keep myself interested and entertained. At least until I get past the surface, though it takes so much time and energy to supersede the generic. Yet that’s my inherent function, as a writer. I prefer the mortar metaphor, things you can make from crushed glass, by being this girly (yes, I am): I'm better off, I'm better off, I'm better off. With the consistency of a grindstone, hold your hand under warmer water when you really need to focus, close your French doors against the draft, tell the older from one Nicaragua that your husband or boyfriend is from Denmark. Ask him his name in Spanish, seconds after you ask him, in Spanish, how one would ask what one's name is in Spanish. That's what being that girly is: waking up with stuff all over you face, just the way you left it.