the habit of being

“I’m just interested in finding out what the hell goes. I mean do you have to be a goddam bohemian type, or -dead-, for Chrissake, to be a -real poet-? What do you want–some bastard with wavy hair?” (f+z)

what my problem is is that i can’t figure out whether I’m the wavy haired bastard or the one looking for one. maybe both. probably both. though not a real poet, nowhere near. maybe in a few years, though. maybe. maybe everything will change. you never really know. I could be anything, she used to tell me, a scientist or an astronaut or the president of the united states. could I be a poet then? is a poet -something-? something i could be(come)

thinking about her in that strappy ballerina thing makes me feel so repulsive. she seems very pure to me somehow. she’ll always be the same really. beautiful. ballerina clothes and beautiful are enough to kill anyone’s self-esteem, really. i couldn’t wear such a thing, nope. i don’t want her to be beautiful and not me. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to see it flaunted at me in my own house. oh no

carnivals and candy and midnight concerts
the rocky horror picture show
smutty movies and pot brownies
and things gone by like lightning
charms blow pops
music notes on crumpled paper
big pink hairbows with red hearts on them
et cetera

“Katharine I adore you. You my dear make me hate myself. This is one of those high jennifer compliments. Youre not allowed to cry over imaginary problems. Cause youre heavenly.
The shoes are just pink. “