There's so little to post that is true and safe that I haven't already written to my brother.
School is nice. I have only thought about my writing past twice in the last few weeks, and never while actually in class. If the subject came up, I'd have to think about it, jar my head back into my life, to answer truthfully. When I'm in class, I'm utterly focused on the material, on getting better, on finding the nuggets of good stuff inside even the worst of my classmates' poems. I was scared of bad poetry before, but now I feel like an archeologist. I've read some dumbass poems, but they always have some good idea in them, somewhere. Almost like their souls manage to get their message out, even if it's just one line or word, even if the writer has to write all around it and over it and under it to get there. Some of the poems look like gorgeous little girls covered in crazy tattoos.
One guy adopted me, or so he thinks. I adopted him, on the first day. I love it that he's already capable of busting out of cliche, and editing, and I can tell he loves to read. He reads and reads. Now, I'm afraid all he needs to do is sit and work, and fuck up, for a long time. I just hope the substance abuse doesn't get him before the masterpieces come out.
Anyhoo, he picked me to partner up with and rewrite one another's poems. It'll be harder with his stuff than it would be with bad stuff. Bad stuff, I can just go wild and show off. With his stuff, I'll have to think about it.
It's nice to be around all this literature, but it's making my letters to my brother too literary. He seems to like them, though.
Last night, I was one seventy-two. I have worked out every night for several nights now. Then I have a glass of wine and I feel fine.
Everything else seems to be falling apart in my brains but the working out is holding me together.
I'm so sick of all the crap piled up in my body. Sugar, grease, all of it sitting around stagnant because I don't drink enough water. I feel like an unflushed toilet.
One seventy five. I'm back up there. I'm able to admit it now because I've done something about it, the last couple of days. My eating has still been horrible but the last two nights I've gone to the gym after The Bug went to sleep.
So now I'm having some wine. It's a very good wine but I brushed my teeth first. I don't recommend that.
Night.
I think I like myself better with a drink in me.
One side hurts today. It was ovulation, but Christ. It's never been that bad. But I had a beer and then Samus So Happy! It was a great night.
So right when Jordan's writing about needing constant validation and shit, I'm thinking I wish I didn't have so much.
School is good, except for class. I don't know if I'm the best one in class, okay. The idea is subjective. Many of those kids are better educated, better read, know more about form and whatever. Many of them are more talented. But none of them have had the time to work and fail and hate themselves and love themselves again and work harder and find the balance again and fall into a deep depression and publish something and fly around for about point two seconds until they fall into an even deeper chasm. Shit, I don't know if even my teacher has had to do all that.
So my stuff comes out a certain way. Maybe it's not what the teacher is used to seeing from 19-year olds. So she tells me she'd like for me to share a review of a poem I wrote, with the class. Then after I do that, I'm waiting for the other people to do it. And there is no one else.
My classmates are staring at me like it was my idea and KERBOOOOOOM. There goes any rapport I may have worked up with my fellow classmates.
Anyway, I'm drinking a beer now and the caring is just not happening anymore!
This morning I had a salad from the store with spinach and other good things, and I ate it with a latte at home while reading my homework, and tonight my lower abdomen is cramping like the motherfucker, like half a contraction. So I loaded The Bug into the car and picked up Mister Aran and on the way home the news comes on the radio and says DO NOT EAT BAGGED SPINACH, E COLI POISONING, IF YOU HAVE ABDOMINAL CRAMPS CALL YOUR DOCTOR.
So I went to the bathroom at home. There's that flesh colored silverfish thing, whatever it is, that has lived in that bathroom now for a week. It moves to a different spot each time I go in and we keep our distance. I have only seen him move once. I pictured doctors cutting into my belly and wondered if they'd tie my tubes while they were in there.
It was just a thought.
Of course, now I'm thinking I'm just ovulating. But ow.
