Is it bad to aspire for the Matt Damons and John Frusciantes? or is it just plain inconcievable for the likes of me? The days are getting shorter and the cold is in my bones. Soon the dead trees and the muddy slush against cruel cold white shall come and I shall literally be living the metaphor.
A kind soul has asked what I want for my birthday, and I told him it's to forget about it. Pummeling myself with work would be good but I'm afraid people would care enough to remember. I'm weird. That has become a universal truth. I could not help it. That is how I AM.
Funny how I thrive in angst and misery. Wish people wouldn't push my face into that pavement and sprinkle my wounds with salt on top of it. I'm the tall girl people like to whittle down to size, I once punched into my textmail. Sigh. There are days that those words seem all too awfully, blatantly true.
I'm fantasizing about going to New York on my birthday like I did last year but this time alone, not letting a single soul know where I am. I'll just kill time getting lost in the Guggenheim, go to Central Park, bring flowers for John and George and spend the rest of the day in Strawberry Fields just reading Jane Austen, Salinger or maybe Sylvia Plath.
I'm also mulling over getting the Nirvana boxed set that I have been wishing and longing for in my angst-filled heart-shaped box. But I'm torn between that and that little black number from Victoria's Secret. And that is just about how my life is in a nutshell on this part of the Atlantic. Go figure.
Joy.
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