I'm writing something but I don't know what

as usual

Pandora's Breasts

And if I've let those horrible things out of my box, or breast, why should I expect to understand how to make it better?

Why should the Hope in my chest be unscathed? Be not battered, shredded to pieces like an old butterfly ready to die?

Pandora's Breasts (Cause if I called it Pandora's Box U Might think it Had Sexual Connotations)

My fault was slamming the lid shut before Hope could escape.

Now Hope needs 911.

You remember the story. All the horrors of the world are released from Pandora's Box... but there is one last thing in the box...Hope...

But I slammed the lid shut on the little mofo.

I was so angry about all those horrible things, I couldn't help myself.

I didn't know Hope was different.

I still don't. I'm still afraid. What I've held as Hope has so let me down again and again. "To this day sometimes when things are really bad the only thing we have left is hope. Even then some people will say hope deceives us."

And I thought I was being original about the hope idea. Goes to show ya.  It's like you learn at your first theme party: "It's all been done before."--Angels in America

Like, you'd think stories of Hope would help. But lots of them make me feel more like, "yeah, chalk one more up for the normal people. Good for fucking you."

And like bad stories are supposed to make me feel good? Grateful? They make me feel bad for those worse off and afraid I will be like them soon but without the gritty determination those stories always give them. How they manage to be happy in their horrible painful lives while you, scum that you are, are miserable in the lap of the gods. Because they have Hope.

I want to hear stories of the weak. The Hopeless. I'm sick of survivors. I want to bitch-slap them. But it's pointless cuz they always win.

Is Hope, the hope in my breast, recoverable?

I'm afraid to even ask.

(3...2...1....that's what SHE said) It's A Small Thing

Thanks to Smosh for making me feel like a real idiot for enjoying a 20-something comedy show at my more-than-double-your-age.

still, what should age have to do with getting a joke?

I remember being thrilled and forever (and still) far more fond of my older cousin (sorry, Frank) who was also an authority figure, working as a science teacher in my Jr. High School, when I discovered he and his wife owned THE Fleetwood Mac Album.

A generation gap breached. OK, in fairness to Frank, he's not old enough to be my father, but my mother was 8 years younger than her twin brothers, Martin and Frank, Frank Sr. of course being my cousin Frank's father. I figure with identical twin brothers born during the depression to a coal-mining father and Campbell's Soup Factory-working, flame-haired girl working in Philadelphia but longing for her small-town home and determined to be happy there no matter what...

My Babci (Polish for Grandmother.) The family was very proud of Polish heritage, spoke Polish to one another, but never to the children. The church (split from the Roman Catholics---another big story....shoot...violence in the streets...stay tuned)
  RIP Frank McCourt no disrespect but I got a couple stories to match...

I was watching Kurt Cobains widow, The Hole girl, talking to Barbara Walters and really sounding condescending, but that's Courney's stock in trade... astonished Walters had heard of some Cobain tunes and stating that's when it was all over for the REAL music revolution.

Is it because if the music were REALLY real, an older generation would have hated it? Is it the filters we gather as we age that smog out the true? Is that why younger folks see better? Lack of cataracts?

Filters are there for a reason. Not always a good reason. And that's why some old folks revert to being more Emo when they were as kids, before the term "Emo" was even invented.

I was Emo before it was hip. I have the diagnoses to prove it

Where am I going with this?

Older is not smarter.

Smarter is not better.

I shall walk upon the beach and I'll eat a fucking peach
like a motherfucking bawse
dumbass

LULZ

I Can't Write This like a LAMF. omfug I'm too old to start over

I'm the dysfunctional little train that couldn't. My mother read us a story about the Little Train who Could. I loved that story. David fucks Goliath in the ass with Satan's cock*.

I used to think that way.

Now I have no energy, no spirit, no enthusiasm for life. A vague desire to have a vague desire to drum up such a wish.

A knowledge I've had such verve in the past, but no real emotional memory of it.

A tendency to curl up like Metamorphoses (I want to be snide and tell you to google it and I want to be kind and give you a link. Which I'm afraid no one will click because it's just an emo geek thing/k.)

IF IT HELPS the link is to a classic story and you will get extra credit in English for knowing about it or extra attagirls at wine n cheese bad art sourgrapes swarays. (who knew? I thought I was a bad speller and I was a full-blown Merkin meme for soiree, a word so non-phonetical you can't even google it)

I coulda been a contender. a writer a playwright an artist

I chickened out

My body wimped out

forget me.

i owe you nothing you stoopid motherfucking world

go fuck Alice
LAMF
(I like LAMF cuz it was pre-internet but will have peeps scratching heads looking for the real meaning)
CBGB's OMFUG

*you mean "Satan's Cock" is NOT Aramaic for "slingshot"?! Damn you Babelfish!

We called Her The Ferret

Yeah, she did have sharp features. A face tapering forward, needle-nosed, sharp-eyed. Not ugly, sort of normal-looking. Like aristocrats can have that horsey look, but still not be dogs.

Only it was more her ferret-like personality that gained her the nickname.

I remember she'd brag daily about how many hours she'd spent studying, and challenge you on how many YOU'D spent. I think she spoke to me because others turned from her. I was so friendless I would never even turn from a ferret. I felt it was my duty to learn how to socialize with these future lawyers, like as much of my training as any class I took, and much more difficult.

I like to think I have a form of Autism. Even as a child, the first time I read about autism I was like "THAT'S ME!" And then that movie? I mean, I didn't spin plates and I talked but the way the minds of those autistic kids worked? Now, I've never had any sort of diagnosis so I can't claim any Aspergers title.

I have too many diagnoses as it is. I don't want anymore.

It doesn't seem like treating any of them has solved anything.

It's like there's an Initial Treatment Syndrome. No matter what your illness is diagnosed as, simply being treated...treated with ANYTHING...getting out of whatever unhealthy space you've been decaying in...does seem to help.

But only for a little while.

You get tired of trying AGAIN. You don't want another pill..."OH PATIENT X JUST SOOO TURNED AROUND ON THIS"

Woop dee doo for Patient X. Shoot me now.

Because you know Patient X has advantages and you have no idea how she got them or why you never have. It's not gold you want, only a reason to keep living.

To be or not to be...isn't that the question?

Icestorm withdrawal

I don't know yet that the panicked shaking that happens when I run out of vodka is alcohol withdrawal, also known as Delirium Tremens. I am 25 years old, too young for pink elephants and seizures, surely...these are not the days of wine and roses. (I will see that Jack Lemon movie in my teens and think "oh, right, he goes to AA and everything is fine.") A few years from now it will seem to me the movie got it right.

When I see The Days of Wine and Roses yet again many years later, I realize only the drunk husband, not the drunk wife, got sober. It's a good movie.

Someone just told me how Ithaca is very like Key West, except without sunshine. Lake effect makes it rain or snow all the time. Carl Sagan used to say Ithaca would be perfect if they could move it out of Ithaca. I wasn't aware of the effect of lack of sun on mood, but now that I live in Key West, in the sunshine state, I find I still have a vitamin D deficiency, so Ithaca was not the best place for me to live as someone already suffering depression in Pennsylvania, although I had no label then. Seasonal Affective Disorder wasn't a catchphrase back in the 1970's.