sometimes i humiliate myself in the grandest way possible. i can't even be upset because what's the point? but i do act like a turtle when these things inevitably come around. pulling myself tightly into my shell, i sit and wait. when i stop cringing, i know i can come out. i think i can come out now, mostly because i'll be somewhere different for awhile where no one knows me and i can breathe.

my freshly dyed hair feels slightly like straw. it's my fault. i curled it, brushed it out and then put too much hair spray in it. i have such big hair but i wouldn't want it any other way. it looks like wine now. it is so deep and dark and i dread the shower i'll have tomorrow night that will wash it all away. the next time i wash it, it'll be a different colour too. it will change and change everytime i step out of the bathroom. it's sort of like shedding skin. i should feel fresh after each time but something is in my way.

there is a giant empty suitcase in the middle of my room. i have magazines, christmas presents, birthday presents, hangers, books and socks littered everywhere that it's a miracle i can make my way to my bed. allen ginsberg made me want to write. no wait. james franco as allen ginsberg made me want to write. but today i can't. i seem to find any excuse to not do these things that i fear i am turning into her. it's a paralyzing conundrum because i see it but i am not moving. static. but nevertheless this is the act of writing. wheels are metaphorically turning in my head to make the movement; knowledge and thinking are movements. walking around the brisk new york streets with be weighed down; my bag will hold water, two cameras, wallet and two books. that's all i really need. but i need to pack those things and we've come full circle to the empty suitcase that is both just there for decoration and something to toss my clothes on.