Wednesday, October 05, 2005

i want to be a pussycat doll. buss. some blend of the foxy lead singer and that girl with the long red hair (although the lead singer with red hair would just be WRONG but baharal). i wish to wear interesting clothes and sing with a gravelly pouty voice. i know she love you, i undastan'...i guess i'd be crazy 'boutchoo if you were my ol' man tan tan tan tan....what's wrong with that song? everyone hates it but i, i think it's great myhahaa

i am such a lucky monkey; my daddy buys me books and i am walking about positively glutted on e e cummings. there is something surreal about poetry, i have reached the conclusion, something not of this world and reading it in profusion takes out some of your nuts and bolts and screws them back in in a way that you and the world will always be at a strange kind of a pinball machine..your particular little metal balls will be pinging and zinging around on a different little tangent and the rest of the other-people balls will squint and shake their heads at each other- what's up with them? and also then the way you interact with everyone has a residual dreaminess, kinds of strange utopias one affixes to different kinds of people. you won't lie. you won't cheat. you won't close the door on me. you won't do X Y Z or any manner of things because you are you and thus particularly special in this mysterious kind of way, and if i can see it why can't you? but that's not how it goes and people most always do things you didn't want them to because they're messing up the goodness you assigned to them! and you can't do that! it isn't allowed! maybe it isn't because 'love's function is to fabricate unknowness' and when your banners droop i don't know you so much any more. ajeeb zindagi hai, what a strange old ride.

yesterday i was thinking about how when i will be sending out stuff to grad school waley, i will be in essence a bunch of numbers. a GPA, a GRE, an address. a transcript, a social security number. just a string of numbers pinned to a name and that's it. numbers! i will be reduced to a string of meaningless babble that doesn't say anything about me. i don't like the thought of my future hanging on a bunch of numbers. it gives me a stomachache.

i cannot align my insides to the sight of the walker. something just flipped over and landed with a bone-jarring crash when i saw it and each day is a teetering now, careful aagey-peechey. is this what you call becoming 'mentally prepared'? there is no such such thing. there are too many suddenly old eyes, too many lines around mouths, too many hopeful glances and sullen faces in response. sometimes i wish i didn't see them. i feel invisible.

Mina at 11:11 AM