whenever i start drafting emails to send submissions to various literary zines i always feel like i should preface it by saying, look, i'm a manic depressive with a paralysing fear of death and what that means is that my motivation or lack therefore is often dictacted by chemicals/forces out of my control and there will be weeks when all i do is write furiously and your inbox will literally be overflowering with words or ideas but then there will be weeks, even more weeks, when waking up is exhausting and frustrating and all i can bear to do is lie in bed and listen to the biggest lie by elliott smith and play bubblegame.org

i want to quit my job and earn money by writing vague dark almost poems about being broke and unloveable and depressed and insane and how all love is unrequited and casual sex is almost always bad and miserable and how the fuck am i turning 26 and still living in my childhood bedroom spending my free time binge drinking and watching the x files on repeat

so fucked up how i perceive everything as rejection just to be on the safe side

its strange how predictable people are, even the ones that you don't expect (thus adding an air of unpredictability, i suppose? unpredictable in their predictability. i don't know) how even the people who you think you connect with on some other level that feels not even entirely human are still forever drawn to the thin the pretty the delicate the intelligent the creative the privileged the articulate the mentally stable. and it's like...i am a woman but i dont even feel like i meet the basic prerequisites most of the time. i have heavy thighs and thin wrists and bruises and scars and crooked teeth and a beer belly and bitten fingers and shitty casual sex and a predilection for chain smoking when im drunk which is pretty much every weekend and a darkness that blooms out of me like a fucking beacon and a weight inside of me that i cant even begin to explain or carry or even really acknowledge