A collection of paragraphs
Summer is making me crabby. Thank god it rained today, or I might have melted, and I don't mean just physically, in a puddle of fleshy goo. I mean stretched to a taffy-like mental state of existential Salvador-Dali angst.
I'm desperate to be understood. And I'm so tired of wanting to make meaning. I've been thinking about a lot of things. Too many things to catalog. I can't write coherently so I don't write at all. I'm bored with all or none.
I want a delightful mess, a cacophony of something other than. Other than anything. It's hard being understood. Even harder being misunderstood. I want to practice that.
I'm plagued by a tendency to explain. To make sense. What I really mean to say is, I WANT TO MAKE ART.
Summer is hard. It's hot; I'm lazy. Post-show depression sneaks up on you even when there's no show. There was a show, but it's over. Several years ago. There are so many Very Important Things I must do and nothing I care to.
The great thing about the internet is that people of all ages are not only allowed, but expected to indulge in teen angst. Are we there yet?