je vis à Fort Collins, mais je vis aussi dans ma tête.

apparently i have x-ray vision in Portland

     J'suis le fou. 

     I didn't stay alive for this bullshit; I didn't fight and stress every nerve to the point of corruption to put up with the imminent destruction of the people i care about. This isn't what any of us fought for, this is a farce, this is a mediocre play with harsh consequences and an ending that leaves you wondering what the fuck you sat two hours for. There aren't any heroes, the villains aren't embellished enough and all the protagonist is quiet the whole time. 

    It's October. October is significant because of the timing, not because of the month. Every year in october I want to move, to get up and find something new and exciting and beautiful and the hope that the world isn't so disappointing becomes overwhelming to the point that i pursue it in the most manic way possible. I've toned it down, but the underlying desire is still there; more so because I am still a stranger and the stranger it gets the less i can put a hold on the urge to push foreword and just remain patient. 

Every damned year.

      Being in the sober living house isn't easy, either. I went to a room showing this afternoon, and although i thought the guy who owned the house and i hit it off real well, i haven't heard anything back yet. I don't really know what to do in these situations; i don't want to come off like the needy girl who just went on one date and calls obsessively, while at the same time it was an interview of sorts, so what do i do? send him a card thanking him for his time and consideration? I have another one tomorrow at four. i really liked this first guy, though. well, the chips will fall, and i suppose that, like a new car, the world doesn't always deliver.

Like this. What the fuck is this?

                 My life may be small and the things I do and enjoy may be small and while compared to you I am most likely not small, my small things and my small life are what I enjoy in small portions and ultimately no matter how big anyone feels, the kanye Wests of the world or the youth who have so many dreams who will eventually end up somewhere in my world, where dreams are the size of Texas and the world is the size of an envelope and intentions are well meant but calculation has become a survival skill, deranging and deforming the intentions into giant clouds that leave the small lungs in inverse proportion.

           You think you're the bees knees, the cat's meow, and you probably are somewhere. I thought after Amanda wrote me a letter in ninth grade all I had to do was become more worldly, but that was a small thought as well. I became worldly in the convoluted understanding that I had and despite my whatever the fuck attitude towards race you wouldn't catch me anywhere near the middle of Africa.

Am I a faker? a fraud? not in my mind. you won't catch me in eastern europe either. you won't see me anywhere fourteen year olds are paid three hundred dollars to kill me because i pissed someone off.

It's a lot like east St. Louis, but, you know, no black people.