I’ll preface this by saying that some parts of this blog will be a little on the sad side, but I promise that I’ll try to end on the most positive of notes.
I have this vivid memory of being a little kid, dancing around in my living room. I was wearing a giant sheet, and I was watching Beauty and the Beast for what might have been the 110th time since my mother had rented the movie just days before. I was a kid. That’s what kids do.
I’d told my mother that I was going to be a singer like Whitney Houston, or Patti Labelle. According to my grandmother, those were the best singers there were.
Tina Turner was okay, but she was a whiner. Grandma said no one liked a woman that whined all the time.
I was singing at the top of my lungs, and I don’t think I was more than ten at the time, but my grandmother had something to say about my singing. She walked in and put the television on mute, and looked directly at me and said “You’re flat. And you’re not a very good singer. Sit down and be quiet.”
I didn’t really know what flat was, or that my voice was going to change in a few years, or that my grandmother was just a bit hateful. Her word was the gold standard. After all, she was married to a blues singer for years, and she knew everything there was to know about singers.
In the years to come, many people would echo what my grandmother said. I would believe every one of them.
So, lets fast forward to college. I’d done the debate thing and I wasn’t afraid of crowds anymore, but I still found it really hard to sing in public. I took singing lessons in college, but I was so terrified of crowds, that I’d have a mild panic attack, then my asthma would flair up, and then pretty much no one could hear me.
My friends at all my performances were really encouraging. The would say “Maybe if you were just a little louder.”
I can’t remember my first voice teacher’s name. I could look at my transcripts and figure it out, but I do remember what she said before my last panic ridden recital.
“Don’t be afraid. You are talented.”
Now, I’m an adult. That’s why it says on my driver’s license, or birth certificate or some paper work. I’m an adult. I graduated from college in 2007, and I hadn’t sang in choir for a really long time. I tried out for a choir between now and then, but I was out of practice, AND my stage fright kicked in. It was a disaster.
I’d just given up for the most part. I wasn’t going to be able to figure out how to read music well, and I just wasn’t going to be able to sing anywhere besides at karaoke.
On the fourth of July 2015, I thought that I’d lost my voice all together. My esteem had been trailing for a while, and I’d started to delve into a pretty deep depression after several things had gone wrong. When someone that you think really loves you betrays you and hurts you in an unimaginable way, you often feel like you are not worthy of having a voice.
THAT FEELING IS NOT TRUE.
I didn’t have a real job. I’d been laid off and I was waiting tables, again. I was “damaged”goods. But I went to Starbucks, and I saw a posting for the Women’s Chorus, and that they were having open rehearsals. I wrote down the information and looked at the website. I thought to myself, I can do this, if there is no audition and I don’t have to sight read.
I took a break from sleeping all day long, which by the way is exhausting, and I went to the open rehearsal. I found out there was an audition, you would have to read music, and that there were dues. I was about ready to just give up, but one of the songs that the choir rehearsed was Nigra Sum. We’d sang that song in UNT’s Women’s Chorus and I remembered it enough to sing along. I remember how beautiful the chorus sounded, and I remember being really scared. Scared of my own shadow….scared of the other members….and terrified of the audition.
Our director is probably one of the nicest people on the face of the planet. I messed up my own favorite song during the audition. If anyone has ever heard me sing Criminal by Fiona Apple at karaoke, you know I could sing that song backward and forward on a fifth of vodka. It was the worst job I’d ever done at singing that song. AND there was sight reading.
I got to be in the chorus despite that terrible audition.
So this is my second season singing in the chorus. I am still not the best sight singer.
But I am pretty talented, and I keep up with everyone else. We are making glorious music and we are sharing it with others.
I have friends in the chorus. That’s pretty cool.
I didn’t read anything about Mood Goddess before tonight. But this piece was really special to me because I did not think originally I could hit all the notes.
I didn’t realize that if I just followed directions, I could grab each of those notes.
So Moon Goddess, is really about this fierce warrior goddess rising up in all her power and fury. Grabbing her voice and making her power known.
I refuse to let anyone make me feel like I don’t have a voice, or let anyone make me feel like I’m powerless.
I’m excited for everyone to hear all the fantastic music that will be performed this Friday. Composed by women. Hear us roar.
I won’t be wearing my sheet on Friday. I’ll be wearing a black dress. I will also pay no mind to what my grandmother thinks about my singing.
I almost forgot. Get YO tickets http://www.twcd.org
I have been writing love letters for a very long time.
Since I can remember I’ve been cultivating a knack for persuasive writing.
Please give me this scholarship.
Vote for me in this debate round.
Please don’t judge me unfairly.
Let me have a job.
Be my friend.
I remember being a kid coming home from 1st grade, and my mom and aunt would sit and listen to me tell all of the stories about exciting things that had happened to me. They weren’t great stories, I mean how could the be–I was only in the first grade. I remember the feeling though of captivating an audience. I thought then that it was worth it to tell a few lies so my mom would laugh instead of worry. Kids that are bullied don’t want to spend all their time talking about the terrible things that happen to them.
I’ve never been particularly confident, and so when I entered an age where I cared for the attention of the opposite sex, I felt persuasion was the only tool that I truly had. And somehow, all of the emotions of a 15 year old girl poured onto paper, and I folded and sealed the notes in the way that one did in those days. Here was courage. This was the best way to let me love be known. Or whatever it was, I doubt that it was love at this time.
I’m not sure that any of the guys really knew what to do with these heartfelt letters and emails, save one. And even he didn’t know what to do with my proclaimed affections. He was gay, and I suspect he was kind to me because he knew what it was to be bold and confess a secret, even if it was known that secret may not be well received.
But early on I was pretty clear on rejection. I became well acquainted with that terrible pain in the pit of ones stomach. It’s the same feeling I get now when I hear I’ve been sacked, or a friend betrays me, or a man treats me poorly.
I wrote about love to Cody, to Jimi. I spouted about Sloan. I reasoned with Ray. I promised great joy and laughter. I promised to always take care of them. All these promises were true, but they all fell on deaf ears.
I’ve pledged undying loyalty to my friends, and my friends have moved past me. I’m so happy that they have. I wouldn’t want it any other way. I have no children, so in a way I want those that I love to surpass me. It’s okay with me. Their loyalty lies with their partners, and there is no room for me. There is room for visits…and I enjoy traveling to visit them and share parts of their lives.
I’m afraid there are no more letters for the new people that I love. My inkwell is all dried. If it must be true that I’m rejected, I can’t make evidence of my foolishness on a piece of paper.
Maybe there are no more gifts for people that push me to the side. There should be no more loyalty to people who pledge allegiance to others. No place for traitors in my stories.
No room for people who devalue me at my table. No ear for people who talk down to me. No power for those who would seek to make me powerless.
Did you find someone better to pass the time with? Fantastic. Pass all your time there.
Are you overwhelmed by my sorrow, there is no room for you in the sunshine.
There are people who do love me, I won’t be in the business of convincing people that I’m worthy anymore.
I won’t convince my father or mother, my friends, my exes, my future lovers. I just don’t have the words anymore.
I’ve lost the coin toss of life twice by being born a black woman, so I’ll negate this round.
Let’s start with some back story.
When I was a little girl I had stage fright. Crippling stage fright. For reasons unknown to me I won pretty much every part that I auditioned for in school plays, and with the exception of one line I delivered successfully about the Boston Tea Party, I was an epic failure at every school play. There were just too many faces in the crowd, and too many bright lights.
I loved music, but because of a random remark that my grandmother made when I was 6, I wouldn’t join a choir until I was 18. I know, I have quite a few issues with quite a few people.
I joined band for two reasons: I wanted to experience the ability to make music in a group without spot light, and because my mother was a flute player. I didn’t know about my motivations at the time because I was making decisions in the fifth grade. I had secretly taken piano lessons without my mom’s permission in the second grade, but quit because it was abundantly clear that I had no business anywhere near a piano at my first recital.
I was quite dedicated to band until my sophomore year of high school. I had never really bonded with any of my directors since junior high, and I was awkward and a terrible player, and it should have been pretty clear that I had no business in band at all. Leslie B., one of the band directors sat me down and had a chat with me. It was probably the most communication we’d ever had in the years that I’d been in my district’s band program. I remember the conversation quite vividly.
“Apryl, I wanted to have a chat with you because you’ve been in band for a long time. How long have you been playing?” I thought for a second and told him since fifth grade. “Ah,” He responded and paused for a second, “And you’ve just started debate, yes?” I nodded in agreement. I just knew he was going to question my loyalty and I was ready to put up a fight. “How many awards have you won in debate this semester?” I tallied up all the trophies that I’d gotten–though I can’t remember now what the tally was at that point. “How did you feel in those moments? I hear your name every week on the announcements lately.” I told him that it was awesome. And then he had another pressing question,”How many awards have you won in band since 5th grade?”
I didn’t have to count. The answer was none. He went on to tell me that I could take extra time off from band to dedicate to debate, and he still allowed me to march at football games so I could hang out with my friends. And that’s how one of the most inspiring educators I’d ever met became so inspiring in my mind. He realized I had a knack for something else, and that I wasn’t going to pick up on that by myself. I am forever grateful.
So, educators have this great duty, I feel, to point children in the right direction, and expand their minds to the finer points of logic. After the election, and some of the things I’d been reading on the internet through the infallible Facebook, I felt hopelessness and despair. I just knew that if these wonderful friends of mine were running around talking about all of us “lily livered liberals” crying over something so silly as an ideology that spurs intolerance and racism, then there was no reason whatsoever for people who didn’t have personal experiences with people who were different to make space in their hearts. That’s a chilling prospect. It’s scary. And after a little time of being inactive, I returned to the same community Mr B pushed me toward all of those years ago. High school debate.
So yes, I must admit that debate is overrun with white males.
And yes, we are still in Texas. But the first thing that I noticed was that all the kids were just hanging out together. Right after the election. Everyone was friends with everyone. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian, even a couple of young ladies wearing their hijabs…Perfectly safe. Everyone was having a good time.
The actual resolution was about qualified immunity with regard to police officers. I heard children from the ages of 13-17, make more solid arguments about systematic racism and how we stop it, then majority of the people who are grown ups on Facebook. How comforting it was to hear a coherent discussion, on both sides about how to deal with a very real problem. I spent most of the tournament judging varsity debaters, but at the very end of the tournament I picked up a ballot to be on a panel in the final round of Novice LD. These kids are new to the sport, mostly freshmen, and for the most part though judges never want to deal with them, here in lies the best opportunity to have a true teaching moment. I accepted the ballot with this in mind.
The round was going absolutely terribly, and both of the kids were making circular arguments and raising their voices unnecessarily. The room was packed with children who were watching to support their friends or just learn something. I was judging with a couple of younger judges out of college. Their critiques were pretty technical in a way that none of the kids could understand but made them seem really smart. It’s not their faults, teaching isn’t something that comes naturally to everyone.
My critique was the longest. I do enjoy hearing myself talk, but I really wanted them to take away something from the experience, and I needed to call attention to something that was said in the round by one of the debaters.
One of those little wonders, at some point in the round decided to make this her sole argument pretty much : The police aren’t racist, it’s black people who are criminals and put themselves in harms way.
No one else had addressed it, and after I made both of the kids feel great, I made an announcement to the room about making the kinds of statements that the girl had made. I first asked her if she had any evidence that the statement was true. She looked around, and I told her that the argument was terrible, without evidence, and that there were maybe 12 other ways to dismantle the argument that she was trying to overcome when she made the statement originally. She looked almost as devastated as the other two black children in the room were when she made that argument.
After the round, she came up to me and sincerely apologized. And I talked to her for a bit and then told her that aside from that little incident, she should be awfully proud.
What would have happened had I not been there to point this out?
What happens when people, especially children, say things that some adult told them that simply are not true? I suspect this type of innocent ignorance is the substance that grows into hate if it’s unchecked.
Education is how we make the world a better place. If you are putting your hope in anything but the future of this nation, our children, your hopes are severely misguided.
We have a moral obligation to educate our youth.
Ugh, now I have to go back to school so I can make a meaningful impact. I like epiphanies and all, but I’m really lazy and I didn’t think I’d have to put in more work for my life to be meaningful. 😉
I tell people all the time that it’s not my job to teach people how the government works. I guess in a few years it will be…
In one of our top secret work meetings, some of the younger girls were talking about how they think the terms used to discuss women’s health were gross. I heard them go on and on, and honestly I remember thinking to myself that what was weird about being in that room isn’t really the age gap. The weirdest thing was sitting in a room with strangers that had a completely different way of looking at everything. I couldn’t say whether their way is wrong or right, but I am pretty sure that their thinking is underdeveloped and on a completely different value system.
I’m kidding. It’s completely wrong. That’s right. I’m judging.
I wanted to stand up and look each one of them in the eyes and say: There’s nothing wrong with being a woman. You work in a lab, don’t be afraid of science. If painting pictures with a bottle of wine is the coolest thing you do in your twenties, you are living your life wrong. The life fairy will take the rest of your youth from you and give it to Keith Richards, because he actually knows how to party.
When I make jokes they don’t understand because basically everything goes over their heads.
I like my job, but I worry about these kids.
Listening to the girls talk about how gross a pap smear sounds, made me think about some things that my gay guy friends say. This is a reoccurring theme for me, and I’m sure I’ve written about this before.
To all the gay men who shame women because they find it funny/secretly hate women:
Just because you are not attracted to women doesn’t make them all disgusting. Having a delicious cocktail, only to have some stranger tell you that what you have between your legs is disgusting or “not right” is a buzz kill. I usually laugh it off, but while I was trying to shrug off the idiocy surrounding me at work, I started to get irritated about it. It’s not a joke. I don’t think that it’s okay to do to women what has been done to you. Someone called you gross for being attracted to who you are attracted to. Those people are wrong and they are assholes. Just because you’re in a safe haven with people who support you doesn’t mean you have to attack innocent women who are standing by. I’m not sure why you’re thinking about my vagina and cringing. I’m certainly not thinking about sweaty butt sex. I’m thinking about having a laugh with people who I think are smart and funny. I’m sorry that someone hurt you. You don’t have to hurt me.
The next time I hear a gay man start down that path, I’m going to put my drink down, stand on my own to feet and make direct eye contact and say:
“You cant fuck right on off with that nonsense.”
Next topic. I’m a really gabby girl. I have been since I learned how to talk. I wasn’t a kid that asked why about everything, it was so much worse. I was told that I needed to be quiet often. The grown ups in my family always seemed pretty perturbed with me. It wasn’t until I witnessed some of my friends parenting that I realized that you’re not supposed to be perpetually irritated by children. I always needed to “sit still somewhere and be quiet”.
Naturally when I got older I found some friends who would help me cultivate a complex of inferiority that revolved around the idea that I talked way too much. The men I would date would definitely chip in. And by the time I hit my late 20’s all of the new aged hippies would help me to really shine a spotlight on what’s wrong with me. All new aged philosophers know that the only way to be free is to do exactly as all of the other free thinkers in your circle are doing.
Be free of society’s chains and preconceived notion, so that you can adopt our yoke. And please don’t have other opinions, brah, that’s drama.
“I get really lonely.”
“Oh really, well that’s probably because you don’t like yourself. You’re definitely going to need to align your chi and then go out into the woods alone to think about yourself until you love yourself so much that you think being in control of your own experience means it’s totally okay to be a shitty person to everyone around you.”
It’s great advice, right? At the same time, the internet starts to explore what it means to be an introvert. We know all about extroverts, they have the power to socialize, so those people are not important. Introverts need this. They crave that. They thrive when….?
Even those we seem to be so sensitive to letting introverts be unique butterflies, somehow the message is that something is wrong with you if you’re dependent of people. Needing attention is wrong.
“Ugh, do you talk all the time?””
“I’m so happy being alone with my introvert arts and crafts package, you’re different so you’re definitely broken. You ought to try being more like me. Here’s a deck of pokemon cards and a special guide to hording pets and never leaving your house!”
Most of my favorite people are introverts. It’s totally cool, but what I didn’t realize is that I’ve been ranting and raving about trying to bravely embrace solitude, when I was never really built to operate that way.
There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just an extrovert. I need people around to recharge.
Thems the brakes. So I’ve been working tirelessly to change a fundamental facet of my personality so that I could become the quiet quirky girl.
Next time someone tells me that I need to learn how to be happy alone, I’m going to look them in the eyes, grab both of their hands, take a deep breath and say,
“You can fuck right on off with that nonsense.”
I’d like to tell everyone a little secret about me.
I don’t like driving. I never have really. My uncle let me drive his car once when I was in the sixth grade. He said that he could teach anyone how to drive. That may have been true, but I’m not sure an 11 year old needs to be behind the wheel of a Cadillac, or Lincoln, or whatever the fuck giant car he was driving at the time. It was supposed to be something amazing that I could tell whatever imaginary friend I had at the time (I was extraordinarily unpopular as a child, which is why I have such a fantastic track record as an adult), but it really just filled me with anxiety.
A year after that, I would have the privilege of driving on the freeway, after my mom got pulled over by our city’s finest. She had a warrant out for her arrest because of a speeding ticket a couple of cities away. Luckily for everyone involved, my uncle’s 10 minute lesson of terror must have taken root with me. I had to take in a great deal of realizations within a couple of minutes. 1.) My mother is an outlaw because she drives fast and doesn’t pay her tickets. This totally makes her a terrible person, and she deserves to be arrested in front of her child. 2.) The police officers arresting my mother didn’t actually look at me. They didn’t ask for a drivers license, and if something had happened to me in that car, their world would’ve been flipped upside down. I was just a black kid and my life didn’t really matter, or they’d have checked, but what they didn’t know was that I had a litigious minded grandmother who wasn’t totally broke at the time. 3.) This would set a precedent for my mother thinking that I could do everything like an adult, if she gave me a good pep talk.
The worst thing about my mother’s mentality about my abilities was that she was fucking right. While the cops were running her license she looked over at me and said, “Now, look, they are going to take me to jail. But don’t cry! (I was glad she said that because I was definitely going to cry). Be brave! Now, Grandma’s house is two exists down. You know how to get there? (Head nod from a terrified 12 year old) They aren’t going to ask how old you are because you’re tall, and they are white so they won’t actually look to see how old you are in the face. Just drive slowly. And go to Grandma’s and let her know what’s happened.”
The cops came back and asked my mom to step out of the car. I got out and walked to the driver’s side. One of them shined a flashlight in my face and then let the other cop know I was good to go. I drove to my grandmother’s, and my mother got carted off to jail.
I know, right? Major lapse of judgement on everyone’s part. But I lived to tell the story, so that’s a good thing. When I arrived my grandma nearly lost her mind, probably because three adults thought it was a good idea to let a 12 year old drive. In a city. On a freeway.
After that even there was pretty much no turning back. I was making trips to the grocery store, and driving everywhere within county limits. I was pretty decent at driving in my humble little opinion, I didn’t even have an accident until shortly before my 16th birthday.
If you look back through my blog, I write a great deal about the stresses of driving. It’s a strain. It’s a necessary evil. It’s something that people have to do to survive. What it is not is a bucket of fun. With that premise in mind: I don’t ever want to drive 2 hours or so on my off day.
You’re going to have to make it worth my while. Negotiate.
Now before, I would just go places because it seemed like a good filler of time. But with this massive commute that I have (and don’t get me wrong, I love this little job of mine and I don’t mind rushing through traffic) I don’t want to spend any unnecessary time in my car. Also remember that I can’t indulge in any stress relievers while I’m driving. I can’t drink. I couldn’t take anything for anxiety without being less attentive. I don’t smoke pot, but if I did, I don’t think I’d be able to manage a long trip.
Oh, and by the way, driving with any kind of headache is pretty much the worst. I can barely handle lights in my bedroom, but somehow even though I’m in incredible pain, I’m going to get into my death machine, and see if I can navigate around other cars through flashing traffic and street lights because…well I’m not sure why I’d do that.
Okay. Here are some reasons why I would drive my car with a migraine.
- Someone is dying and needs medical attention
- a friend is having a baby and needs medical attention
- I was trapped somewhere other than home when the pain started and now I need to get home
- There is a sick puppy/kitten/lizard/other pet that must go to the vet immediately
- Idris Elba is within city limits, and he’s promised to hug me if I just arrive at a disclosed location.
- I don’t have migraine medicine. You are in the location where I can find such medicine, and your destination is my house.
- It’s your birthday, and you need something or other.
- Dave Chapelle.
Now everyone knows. I hate driving. Make me an offer I don’t want to refuse. I learned that it’s unhealthy to put other’s needs before your old all the time from a show on Netflix. I’m going to try to be more healthy.
Since the beginning of time, or at least from the beginning of my existence within the dating realm, I’ve been getting this terrible pep talk. The talk comes from a variety of people, it always comes from people who feel like they are well intentioned at heart. Good intentions very well may be the root of the condescending talk, and so it is often received and considered by any person who is distressed by not having a partner. The gist is this “When you’ve passed whatever magical test the universe is making you take, and you learn to love yourself and enjoy your own company, then you will find someone to share your life with. Sounds pretty swell, right? A person who wants a partner in crime, or friends, or anything they don’t have must have terrible self esteem.
“I’d really like some ice cream.”
“Only once you learn to live without ice cream. can you truly appreciate the value of ice cream.”
“Fantastic. I could just google the location of a marble slab.”
So I’m not the biggest fan of how I look, which really upsets other people. Most of my friends didn’t really grow up with the idea that everything about them is wrong because of some sort of societal stigma. So like they can’t fathom that after years of being told, “You’re pretty ugly, dark people are the worst, black women are masculine, your hair is coarse and out of control” that it would take some time for me to reverse all that training.
I recently watched the Matrix again. It feels like we all forget that it takes time to free a mind, and that just because you’re free doesn’t mean other people are. You will have to deal with those people. It sucks, and it’s tough, but it’s a side effect of knowing more. I’m willing to deal with that.
People often assume that because I’m displeased with my physical appearance, I also think that I am not a great person. I have ups and downs, I am a constantly evolving person. I think, despite what all of my exes tell me, that I have a good heart that is filled with compassion. I am of the opinion that I’m often a fun person with fantastic sense of humor and a way of thinking that is a bit off of the beaten path.
I’m not less enlightened because I don’t identify completely with eastern or western religion. The reason why I’m single isn’t because I’m materialistic. It’s not because I don’t meditate. It’s not because I don’t have any time to discover myself because I’m constantly in relationships with other people.
I’m not single because I’m sad all the time. It’s not because of my bar posture. It’s not because I need to change my personality to be able to date (that kinda seems like a bucket of lies.) Maybe it’s because everyone is different. Everything is not easy for everyone. Maybe it’s because we are surrounded by garbage people. Now you’re thinking that’s a rude thing to say, but rapists, murders, and abusers are garbage people and they surely exist.
If you value the friendships of those around you, you will not find a person that you really enjoy and tell them that they are in a place that they dislike because something is wrong with them. Just because we can’t find the placement of a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, doesn’t mean we throw it away, and that doesn’t mean we should cut it so that we can shove it into a place where it doesn’t belong because we see fit.
Don’t tell depressed people to spend more time alone to become happy with themselves.
Why can’t we just say “I’m sorry you’re feeling icky, would you like some vodka?”
Our friends are a testament to the fact that we need interaction with others. We should judge people as empty or not self aware because they are seeking a different kind of social interaction.
I’m incredibly angry.
I’m angry whenever I think of my obligations. I’m upset that I feel constantly burdened.
I’m upset that I don’t have a partner to share those burdens with. I’m enraged when I think about having to make bricks without straw. I’m terrified because I’m always building houses without bricks.
I’m stifled because I can’t express myself. I can’t express myself because I’m jammed with emotions that I can’t explain and that I actually don’t want to talk to anyone about.
I want to break things when I think about how I’ve been robbed. You don’t ever want your friends to steal from you. Especially something that no one can replace. Someone stole all of the joy, which is ridiculous because I have such a small area of joy to begin with.
I’m pissed when I think about how everyone else can sleep at night without drugging themselves.
I’m upset when I hear about other people having sex. I used to enjoy sex, now I have no desire for it. I suppose it was dwindling, and someone stole the last bit of desire I have left.
He took it from me.
Now I’m this unattractive angry thing that can’t sleep. He’s sleeping. But I’m not.
I’m angry that I feel like it’s my fault. I’m pissed because I feel like all I’m doing internally is whining about something that I can’t change.
I’m sad because I don’t have a job.
My hair looks like a fucking disaster.
I feel like crying is a waste of water. I wish I had mended from the theft before I got fired.
I didn’t mend. Now the roof is caving in.
I want all the hugs. But I don’t want anyone to touch me. I feel completely powerless.
I feel worthless.
I wrote a poem about it but I can’t finish it. I make jokes that are inappropriate.
Everything is a big secret that I can’t tell anyone about. The kicker is that the thief was someone that I always confided in. Who am I supposed to talk to now? I guess I’m supposed to write abstract blogs.
I saw the person responsible for the death of my cat the other day. I can’t really be angry with her because she’s a nutcase.
So I just have all of this angry that just sits on me.
We’d recently gotten a new cat, but it’s like I couldn’t bond with it. I couldn’t give it any love. I’m just all dried up. It was a cute kitten. I just couldn’t bond with it. I’m not sure I can make any kind of bond.
I’m working a small job on the side for a friend for extra cash. I dread doing the work, because I really don’t’ want to do anything.
My friend told me that I should write about the theft, so I am. I’m not feeling any better. I’m just being vague.
You can run around for an entire night making me feel awful about things that I can’t control, like my general appearance, and then hours later steal from me. Because maybe theft isn’t about attraction. Theft is just about power.