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Honest Frustration: A Loosely Organized Rant


Everybody has these wonderful goals!

My goodness, I praise all of you fine folk who have direction and organization in your life. Albeit, creatively, you may very well be lacking, but to be perfectly honest, most creative people are only as creative as their taste in clothing. Anyway, creativity and artistic sentiment isn't a cash cow. It's more of a struggling mule on a farm bought on a whim by a trust-fund baby.

But what I mean to say is that I respect the norm. Society, you are doing just fine. It must be me. I must be disatissfied because of my poor life decision choices. Like going to school. Like not fucking rich older men with "connections". Like not using my pussy as a justification for special recognition. You know, I didn't do the things that a lot of women do.

Because you know, I'm not sure if you knew- but I am indeed a woman and as a woman today....well it's hard. And no, not like 50s hard. Or middle-ages burned-at-the-stake hard. But it's still difficult. There are too many options. Independence. Forced independence as a career woman. Fight for your corner office, you bad bitch. Prove to the fellas that women are BETTER. Juggle your family, your job, your xanax addiction, and your botox sessions all while you fuck the soccer coach before an organic dinner. Or get some big fake titties, shop at a sex shop for your general wardrobe, and start acting like a spoiled and mentally challenged baboon with an unnatural sex drive. Then go audition for a show. Either way, you're working hard for the money.

I'm sick of that. I'd rather do womanly things. Cook and fuck. Clean and get high. Look after kids and make filthy jokes. Look pretty just to feel pretty.

 I appreciate the times, I sincerely do. I want to be a real writer one day and I couldn't have done that with any ease in previous times. I certainly wouldn't have had the pleasure of expressing my eroticism photographically and publicly without being pelted with insults and old fruit before being sentenced to some kind of insanely inane jail sentence.

But it's so hard to find a goal. The expected a set direction and situation in which you will be guaranteed to have enough money to live according to your standards. That's what it seems like the expected goal would be. So I guess publication. Compensation for hypothetical publication. The kind of goal that other goals just look at and start to smile in a sympathetic way.

 I want to be happy. I want to be in love and offer all the love that builds along the path of unexpected kindness offered by strangers. I don't have a game plan. I want to make things for people so they can forget about the nasty, brutish, and short world. I want them to give in to the beautiful fantasy that plays constantly in my head. I want to write things to give anybody the chance to have new thoughts delight their imagination. To give them the opportunity to make the beauty of their everyday lives a tangible companion.

I don't want to worry about money.
I don't want my dream to die.


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