resolution seven:

to write for an audience again.

bob dylan

i fucking love bob dylan so much. like so much i don't know how to express it. like it's weird. why was i not alive in the 1960s. why can't i remember how to spell anything. why have i lost my ability to form coherent ideas? shoulda been an english major. won't write til noon tomorrow. i'm glad my keyboard's falling apart though! so perf! i love twitter because it gives me an excuse to publicize my awesome thoughts without seeming like a narcissist. fuck off if you don't like it, it's because you have nothing to say. virgin records should never go out of business. i hate b&n too. i just heard the fucking mouse. i will tell you this much: i will marry just once. and if it doesn't work out i'll give him half of my stuff. it's fine with me. i'm sad that so many things i like are dying. i'm sad that i'm young now and that i won't be young in the future. i won't come every time you call. i wonder what would happen if there was an earthquake under new york. it would probably be pretty in the way that anorexic people are pretty. yknow what's always really pretty? art. student films are the worst things ever-- they're so hopeful they make me depressed. i am so sublime because i've numbed myself to da bone and it's better than feeling. the russians, too, have god on their side. 

ive got a plan. im gonna find out how boring i am and have a good time

inside of me, i'm feeling big things as i press my stomach against the cold linoleum floor. i am feeling things, and i am noticing how hard the floor is and how soft i am against it (!!)

and as i try to explain my discomfort in the plainest words i can muster, i turn up a 12 bar blues or i listen to the ababcb pattern on the radio, and i appreciate all i can in the routine of things, and i ogle at simple and my heart feels warm

and i wonder if i wasn't like this then how else would i be?

...and then i finish what i started sleep a little wake soonafter

and start again, 

and i realize i don't have to survive long enough at all to feel entitled while jabbing my finger real hard in ernest hemingway's weathered face (not weathered enough) 

fix-ate (aka oh yeah i forgot about poetry)

I’ll tell you that when I was a little girl I loved this one Christmas tree ornament.
It was pearl colored, and a perfect sphere and I insisted that it hang three branches below the angel at the top in perfect line with it so I could stare straight at it whenever I entered the living room at the right angle

My sister had a favorite one too, and she put hers on a bottom branch so it wouldn’t break,
I don’t remember what color hers was or what shape or if there were trimmings in gold but I do remember it was her favorite

But oh my pearl colored pretty little ornament, it was gleaming like it should, making the bells and the broken nutcrackers, everything around it, look prettier just because it was there

And I swore to myself it was magical and that what it did was trap the light of the room inside of its sphere so it could outshine everything else, and it did, it did everything I wanted it to

On a goose-colored Thursday it fell and broke into three ugly pearl colored pieces, taking down two or three nutcrackers with it, and you know I was so heartbroken I had to be persuaded not to cancel Christmas

There’d be no more fun without the bauble nestled above us all, suspended, not doing much at all but reminding us of its existence and that was enough for me, that was even more than enough, that was really all I’d wanted

And then Christmas followed quickly, I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember that all morning long I pretended I was the light inside its pearly face, I tried so hard to pretend that I think I missed a point of the holiday

And the three broken pieces, I had to throw them out, I didn’t find any light on the inside