i imagine myself as skinny, happy and creative. smiling at everyone, driving everywhere, drowning in music and laughter.
i, here, have bulimia, binging and purging, binging and purging. biiiiiiinge all the way to now. but i'm too weak to purge so i'm fucked. i'm not happy, says dr. chamberlain, and she's right. cause i can't sleep and people that used to fill me with butterflies only leave me bitter. i write i write i write. writing folder filled to the max, but beat poems are for the sixties and i've already been done.
but i went driving today. 80 mph down the highway in a jaguar they can't really afford. it drove so well. i was laughing all by myself, listening to slightly stoopid. lame. it's lame, but it's true. i guess if you're always judging, everything is lame unless it's something unattainable. i'm going to try to stop caring
