One day I'm going to take everything ugly and funny and beautiful and real in my life and put it out there, and it's going to blow the fuck up. I have to believe that, even if I feel paralyzed by my own inertia right now, I have been calmer and more creative, having actual ideas and executing them with varying degrees of success. I can feel myself beginning to pan out, take the final shots for my memory so I will still remember it as poetically as this later, when there are no real faces to remind me. I also must insist to myself that everyone is, potentially, as crazy as I am. And after all of this, after I have received critical acclaim and appear in the pages of Black Book or Flaunt, when Benicio and I are finally together, I'm sure Vanity Fair will ask him, what is it about her that you love so much? And he will pause, laugh a private little laugh with himself, smile and look up. He will meet the interviewer in the eye and he will say something like, "It's like the part at the end of "Hey Jude" when John Lennon is screaming," and laugh again, and I will live as though I have finally achieved the far-flung victories of rock and roll love, once and for all.

I just want to be the girl (or the scream) in the song.

I have missed writing. I have missed having a space to share with others, with my own mind. Lately I have been writing short stories. Here are the two I'm working on right now:

Slumber Party.

P. is invited to Shelby’s slumber party through a folded note in science class. Shelby is the popular girl, the queen bee. The first party falls through and at the second, Shelby takes a picture of P's overdeveloped boobs, which she proceeds to shows to everyone in school – suddenly the heirarchy of cool is a democracy, everyone is in on it, except for P. Nobility or reprisal?

Cootie Girl.

Ellen is taking care of her terminally ill and paraplegic ex-boyfriend, Charles, who appears to be on his deathbed. The relationship was tumultuous throughout and mostly because Charles consistently dumped Ellen. When Charles became ill, he decided that they were together again, and Ellen quit her job to take care of him full-time. When Lana, the new, Eastern European at-home nurse, starts flirting with Charles and he reciprocates, Ellen decides she will not be humiliated by Charles again, on his deathbed, no less. REPRISAL!

You see the theme?

Anyway, I am as crazy as usual. I am going to look at apartments soon. I will make more sense later.

On the best days we are conspiratorial nymphomaniacs. On the worst he is the privileged stranger, the one who can disappear, the one who tells me he loves me only to tell me he's not in love with me.

There are no more best days anymore with some people. I can feel the edge in him, the fact that he feels driven not only to someone else, but anyone else, anyone but me. It is hard.

I need to shut up.

i want this to work. sdlasdalsdkalsdkal;sdkasdasd