Your heart is like a cherry. It’s very very red.
YOUR heart is Elaine and Jerry. Sitcoms aren’t dead.
Your heart is Misery, I’m your number one fan.
YOUR heart’s ancient history, Ashurbanipal was a man. (Kinda)
Your heart is like the South. It feeds me lots of grits.
YOUR heart is like a mouth all over my tits. (It rhymes.)
Your heart is like Madonna, always dying hair.
YOUR heart says “I don’t wanna” and “I don’t care.”
Your heart is like bologna, it’s not really a meat.
YOUR heart is rigatoni, Italians are pretty sweet.
Your heart is like a cell phone, without it I am lost.
YOUR heart is a cheekbone, on the body of Kate Moss.
Your heart is like molasses. It drips very slow.
YOUR heart is Jackie Onassis. And wears box hats like a pro.
Your heart is like takeout. Eaten hot or cold.
YOUR heart likes to make out. And goes for the gold.
One day I’ll be able to speak openly, sincerely – that’s the word – sincerely without immediately feeling vulnerable, worthless, and fucked. It will happen. I’ll go up to that specific person and say “Hey, Look, you inspire me so much. The stuff you’ve taught me/showed me has…” See, I wouldn’t say this to everyone who’s inspired me or helped changed me in a minor/major way, but it would be a triumph if I could get over this little thing *I* do which is Never Say Anything At All. Like I always miss my chance to be a human who talks. Not all the time, not all the time.
My ipod stopped working during an afternoon walk yesterday on my break and it was hopeless. Yesterday was a day I needed distractionss. A train ride was gonna happen later followed by my first day of a new improv class followed by some walking around in the city and then going back home – all things I couldn’t be alone with Anoush for, except maybe the improv class, maybe. Yeah. I know I’m not stupid and I’m not THAT unpleasant to be around, so my fears of being THAT GUY -THAT GIRL – come from an artificial horrible, miserable self image which I for SOME reason need to hold onto and use to hack away at myself. It’s only fun sssssometimes.
Crisp weather like this reminds me of middle school field trips – and how happy I am that I don’t have to do that anymore. I’d get so anxious and would have to prepare in advance. There was this ONE trip which took place yearly in the outdoors in the woods in Something-Something, Long Island with kids who wore cuter jeans who I felt were entitled to forget my name. (This is not about my name. Enough with that already.)
Imagine if one of your hands had an itty bitty vagina between each knuckle. So, figure, oh, three or four of them. Not elaborate ones, just mini fanny-pack ones that were just… there. First of all, it would look really creepy, especially if they were only on one hand. And second of all I’d never get anything done.