I have been having dreams that little boys make birdfeeders out of my tongue, which is, a pine cone. Someone keeps opening my chest up, pouring hot drinks in my lungs, taking them out and drinking from them like they're a cup. Also, have been digging up many immaculate organs. Riding on the backs of ten ft. men.
Someone please just buy me some Etron Fou Leloublan + The Abortion by Brautigan + a copy of Hapworth 16, 1964.
An orange popsicle wouldn't hurt either.
Lonelier. The object of affection comes home tomorrow from filming in Carolina.
Made another bad film, still can't figure out my yashica/paillard bolex, working hard on papers, avoiding papers, quit my job at the library, too stubborn to apply for dissability, refused to move to New York and have ruined my plans for the summer, I will most likely end up ripping ticket stubs, listening to bad music, go swimming everyday in a solitary stump this summer. That is, for some reason, so totally irritating I can't stand it.
GIRL YOU CAN DO BETTER!
Why did anyone ever let me get away with outfits/haircuts like this when I was fifteen?