My Lovey Post To Myself

Finish a paper, finish a crossword, finish a sentence. Something about cramps, something about paints, something about cancer. Work schedules, social calendars, custody arrangements, rashes. Television, radio, mp3 playa. I am not usually this much fun. And I am not young anymore.

I spend a lot of time thinking about how to be(come) indelible. To be the water mark. To set that fuckin' bar. So that when he thinks of another woman, he cannot help but to compare her to me, and that I always be the best. A tattoo, even one of my forgettable name or my regrettable face, is ambiguous. Many girls could give him a baby. Lots of people love other people that get cancer. Several girls are smart. Plenty are kind. I don't know how to be more appealing than strangers having sex. I don't know enough words or stories to be more interesting than television. I am severe but I am not radical. I want to be colorfast but all I do is bleed. I want you to take my remains and smoke them.

Women Who Believe They Deserve More Because They Are Special

There is this lady who always tells me stories about her friend.
She tells me about her over beers.
Over the phone.
In emails.
And how her friend's just had such a hard life.
Just been so especially hard on her.
So hard, I really could not have any idea how hard.
Because I have never known personal tragedy.
But this poor chickadee.
So much troubles.
So much worse than most other people's troubles.
Than almost everyone else's troubles.
One bad thing after another.
Poor thing.
Bless her heart.
Poor little lamb.
Poor little depressed lamb.
How does she even keep going with an outlook so bleak?
With odds so bad?
I felt empathetic.
No wait, sympathetic.
No, no.
Not sympathetic, either.
What is it when you are
Neither empathetic nor sympathetic?
I suppose I don't give much of a fuck at all.