Visceral, charged, and seething with life should be my new mantra for the week. I want to be Bohemian; I want people to look at me as the artistic aristocrat, the impertinant pert with pertinence surrounding, a rebel besuited in behavior best behooved to David Bowie. Cerebrally august and ridden by a vibrant, awe-inspiring snobbery towards culture, revising history and disdain, acting like a Cubist masterpiece before Picasso came along, giddily intellectual until it hurts others. But instead I'm impossibly lonely, ruthlessly bland and white, basking in the tragedy of now. Maybe I'm just searing, searching for veins, trying to find the life and death and sex and violence and alienation, hoping that I still remember the days no longer abjectly going throught the motions.
"I'm kind of pretty
and pretty damn smart.
I like romantic things like music and art
and, as you know I have a gigantic.... heart
so why don't I have a boyfriend?
FUCK!
It sucks to be me."
