I feel the need to write..about nothing. Just write. Imagine my fingers stained with blue ink. Imagine how dry my mouth feels right now and how I wish it was full of something. Full of orange tic-tacs. Full of marbles. Cobalt blue marbles. Suddenly I'm thinking about how they used to bury people with coins over their eyes. I want to be buried with copper pennies. Copper to match my eyes. My heart feels coppery. I think that is a good thing. It feels enlarged. I'm afraid I'm going to die soon and I can't explain that feeling. It is useless neurosis. I'm not panicked but I can't breath anyway. Too much nicotine inhalation. Not enough water intake? Too much carb. Not enough fiber. My mother is a nurse and has set me up to be a pseudo-hypochondriac for my entire life, but it isn't her fault at all. It's entirely my fault. Is it my fault that my brain ticks too fast? That my chest hurts? That I can't seem to breath in enough oxygen for the whole world, from the whole world. I want to consume. I want to be consumed. By fire, by fucking, by sleeping. I just can't make up my mind when and where. I think my mind needs a nap. A nap on a really soft pillow whose pillowcase is the Holly Hobbie print of my childhood. Sometimes I really want to go back there. Playing in the backyard, ALONE. Playing with "kissing" Barbie. Writing stories about "The Land of Nod" (and I didn't even know what Heroin was back then)...stories about fairies hiding in dead logs, waiting for the hailstorm to pass. Rollerskating on that basement floor. Trying to be Olivia Newton John in Zanadu (xanadu)....Wishing I had friends, but my mouth suddenly freezing when it was my turn to utter ANYTHING. I've changed so much in that way. I was SO shy. I suppose I still am in certain situations, but I've gotten over it. I yell shit at strangers when I drink, I don't even care. I talk to toothless street guys when they ask for change and cigarettes. I should sit down with them because they ask me to, but I'm usually wearing a short skirt, and they frighten me slightly though I have no reason to fear them. But I am so afraid. I'm afraid of everything, but not afraid at all sometimes. It doesn't even make sense. I can't let it make sense to myself or anybody else. I'm afraid of Larry. I'm afraid of what I feel for him. Whether it will grow (which it should..I should just let it do it's thing) or whether it'll fade away like my hair color does every single month. I hate change, but I also hate that fact that nothing is ever permanent. Something is always fleeting. I can never get a grasp on it.

do the jerk * do the frug