I went for a run yesterday and I slipped on wet leaves and gouged my knee on a branch or maybe a rock. I kept running-walking-running-walking with blood oozing down my leg & spreading into a fine red river map in the whorls of my skin. Today I tried to walk to a cafe and got far off course, had to double back and make the little blue dot take me by the hand.
What would I like being? A Private Eye for Hire. A comic book artist and writer. Question mark? Question mark? Question mark? I'm beginning to suspect I don't want to write for television after all and that's terrifying. Thinking I knew I wanted that was kind of an essential guidepost. What will I do? Go to L.A. Become a P.A. Stockpile spec scripts. Work my way up. Now? Question mark? I only want to live by the beach and feel capable of breathing easily. Safety & love & et cetera. I would like to work for a moving company, still, I say over and over, or be a personal assistant? And have time to pursue my lesbian Y.A. author dreams. My dad told me that his work doesn't matter to him. It's the projects that matter, the pursuits of the soul or heart or whatever. The small strangenesses and persistances.
I'm wearing red white & blue. I do that too often without meaning.
Honest to god I am afraid of all of life. In the sequel to deleting Tinder, I deleted the OkCupid app. No need for any of that, please & thank you. I just need to breathe.