Reading titles about Fiona Apple's rape.. has me.. just glimpsing over it. Like I don't really feel what she felt when it happened. How fucked it was, to realize that you're there in that moment, and your vaginal canal is just.. pursued and entered without any want.. and the flesh remembers. Like the snitch in Harry Potter man, the flesh remembers. It's.. communicating.. realizing some other things. Whatever you have to do really.
Sometimes it's weird to separate yourself from your memories. And then, I wonder, if whatever I'm going through now, will be put in the trash pile, the keep pile, the I love it, Pile, the I am so fucking embarrassed i'ma forget about it pile... of piles in the memories log.
Paradigms of thought. How I categorize things.. I guess it's different from others, but I'll never know, I only 'knoe' myself. But.. it's freaky man. What do I mean? Well, I don't really know to be honest. Wait. Lemmetry. Will I be ashamed of myself right NOW in 5 years? Will I love it? Fuck? Will I remember me looking at this screen, with my hands typing slowly but carefully like Nightmare before Christmas Fingers (although I am no skeleton).. ?
I love life. In the way, that's it's like being in the ocean. It's so full of fun, and a bit of death, that when a giant wave comes towards you it's like.. C'MON FUCKER, BRING IT!
You let the wave take you up, to see if it scrapes you on the sea floor, or just nozzles your hair, or if you float above it, or surf it, or tunnel it. Or whatever it. You make the shit up. Or it makes the shit up on you. Whatever. you are in its zone, and you are made up of it, at least a lil bit.
Oh man. To die and to beg for more time. That's fucked.
Ohhhh man. To be youthful and want to die.. that's fucked too.
