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all they got inside is vacancy

It's like the story about how I didn't know who to call & would count friends on my fingers, and then realized I could call AAA. It's like that but in a different city where I look at faces & watch them change, and figure I can write the book myself-- wasn't that what I was going to do to begin with? Anyway, I knew who the narrator was. How unreliable she could be. They told me in the workshop that they didn't hate her-- the opposite-- and I wanted to cry, I wanted to cry and not hate her either, because I tell myself I love myself a million times a day, so there should be no gap between "her" and "me". In the car I've crawled into some kind of ball and I am explaining that this is my face. "Don't you see it's my face?" My face out of all others. Do you ever think that about your own face? That it is your own face out of all others? It is the only one that is just yours. And when everyone has looked into it and said anything, it was just on you. Our faces that we walk around with. Lately people have been liking to talk like we don't have physical bodies. Not just like our physical bodies are some secondary thing, but like they don't exist at all. These are the kind of people that were never slapped across the face as children or dropped way too much acid in the sixties. Or maybe they have just never had their physical body invaded. if they had, I am sure they'd agree at least until they couldn't anymore that it did exist. And then they'd look at a door knob or the wall, the ceiling or the floor & they wouldn't know what a body was at all. But I can write whatever alone. It is a solitary act even when you take on others. How old are you, like, twenty-five? Yeah, sure. No, really. How old are you? Like, twenty-five. I knew it. But you have an old soul. Yeah man, like ten thousand years old something like that.. No way, that's bullshit. You shouldn't lie about stuff like that. My buddy Jeff said. But uh, Can you buy me beer? I wonder if I am getting sick or if I have lost my voice. I ask the woman at American Apparel to teach me how to fold a t-shirt Oh, I'll do that for you. Thank you, but I'd like to know how-- I never do it right. She does it too quickly, I can't see anything. I've never worked retail like this. Ilana refolds my shirts. Stacy & I worked at K-Mart when we were fifteen, sixteen. I don't remember anything being folded. We sat behind registers. Our minds were blown that we'd receive paychecks every two weeks with sums like $327 it was insane. We'd buy our boyfriends cuban sandwiches and drink cheap beer on the beach. And we'd live forever. And I can't fold t-shirts. I am doing my own laundry right now. Another skill I do not possess. Someone said "Bodega" to me yesterday as a pick-up line and it was efficient. Yeah, baby, hit me with Brooklyn. You want to talk about the BQE? Tell me everything you know. The man that runs, or works with computers or does something else leaves for two weeks and says it casually and kind of looks at me like I'm nuts when he walks down the stairs. Maybe I am looking at him like i am nuts. The latter is probably fair to say. But the events leading up to this second warrant my behavior. The look that can glaze over my eyes in second. That makes my footsteps soft so I talk to angels in my head, or even out loud & just start directly asking for answers. The other day there was a bartender, a bucket of donuts. A kundalini yoga class. All in one night. Ordering Manhattans. Wanting my rye dry. "Are you really going to the side of the river?" Sometimes I can't remember if I answer people aloud. In the front seat of twisted my bones until I get answers to questions I cannot think of. The only thing I want to say to anyone is that I should not be expected to sleep on sheets that aren't white, that maybe it would be bad for me. That the weather right now in Portland is beautiful. The chiropractor cracks my back in the street "put your hands over my hands." I'm an expert too. My bones just crunch and crack. See, I should tell the boy that wants the beer, I really am one thousand years old. Age is measured by the flexibility of the spine.

ABOUT THIS BLOG

Hysteria is not possible without an audience, that's why I need you baby. I've always needed you.







I have kept this blog since my first day of high school. It has been an outlet, a blessing, a curse. I talk extensively about anything, music, dudes, internet addiction &how text messaging ruined my life. Some entries are "friends only" but most everything else is public.

Danielascrima@gmail.com




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