father time can't dance
ok. so this attempt number three. it is snowing,again. grey and miserable,and damp. my hands are as cold as death itself. and i sit here paralyzed. rut. sad. tiny. unable to do all of the daily chores and labor and i labor in vain to make sense of it all. i'm sure it has everything to do with the ever approaching doomsday-six short days-until the death of my twenties...darn that eternal adolescence thing....and i have been auditing the last decade of my life. dandelion puff wishes and silly teenage daydreams amounted to not much-and yet-so so much. just not what i had so breathlessly anticipated and so starry eyed envisioned. i have always been held in this awkward chokehold of believing that i was destined for greatness-in the literary sense-very cool -ultra swanky -me+poetry=happiness,and yet i write entirely to myself.fooling myself into believing that it will still find me someday,and whisk me off into this utopian imaginary life that is completely foreign to whom i've become. the players would be the same-but the stakes glam and glorious and i could feel like i amount to more than a shriveled up donna reed(w/out the coiffed up do)in a casserole kind of life. and yet i am happy. i laugh every day,and i smile all of the time-except today when it hits me and threatens to eat me up. i guess i just want to write something. to feel pretty. to have an ann of green gables bosom friend. to just stop feeling the nothingness of it all. vanity fair-alternate ending-not the stupid frivolous elephant scene,but the one where it truly hits her-hits me and slaps me upside the head and says"be grateful-you have a nice life.things are good.life is so short. enjoy.and shutup."
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