reality paint on a surreal house

okay, i have now reached the point. the point is the point where i sit back from the computer and decide that i never want to look at whatever it is i’m writing again, ever. i don’t want to read it or touch it or even think about it. fuck “feminine subjectivity: defining women in tracks and housekeeping.” i’m turning it in like it is, not because i think it’s perfect or stellar or even decent, but because i cannot deal with it anymore. i have reached the point, and have stopped caring. ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space.

so now i am drinking a coke with chocolate syrup in it, looking at the red green yellow leaves on the vines across the alley, and waiting for four-thirty.