Plathological

birthdays

Uhhhhhhhh…so anyway. Now I’m twenty-three (23): heartbreaking work, really. Weak starts like oh, that's a terrifying bang! and so sleeping with both windows locked, shut, then waking to that stalled air. In the mail—cutlery, and bay leaves, etc. Cards, my stack of personal checks. Remaining here, a sludgy blindspot to the clock, its batteries drained, each second dragging its jaw against the kitchen counter more languorously than it should. Tick- - - -ti - -ck. It’s falling behind the hours by the second. Etc. I realize this entry sounds like transcribed autistic speech. You always have the choice of reading it aloud, which I myself have found is more fun than not, the majority of the time. I won’t discuss my weeping because then I’d have to describe, explain (etc.) what a sensitive little girl I am and I’m not up to that--but it was heaving, well into the Greek Tradition, unable to open presents in front of people, too easily touched. And so: thankful, motherfucking grateful, for the privacy. but anyway, it's nice: two, three, (2,3) etc. Last year was nothing if not much too symbolically cyclical--hit a two, reach another. etc.