February 11th, Year of Taurus

Nervous, anxious, scared. Hair made out of terror. Strands are much like wires recoiling from everything, wound up tight. So fragile and brittle, like an old witch. Bones made of despair, crooked and long. Skin made of agitation, discolored, and stretched thin.

Valentine’s Day is a sneeze away. It should not mean anything. It’s barely a holiday. The day only exists to remind people who are romantically unattached, that nobody wants them. They are better off jumping in front of a moving train. Because I don’t like jumping very much, I went to the grocery store in hopes of being noticed by a bag boy, who never asks whether I want paper or plastic, which leads me to believe he is, by nature, a rebel. There is also the possibility that he is a deaf-mute, and this theory is supported by the fact that I have heard him grunt often, which deaf-mutes like to do, and I am baffled by, since I thought them incapable of producing any noise at all.

My seduction attempts were unsuccessful. The bag boy seemed to be more interested in his apron, than in my coquettish smile. That is as much effort as I put into the whole affair. To be sure, I had lipstick on my teeth.

Well enough, I say about the bag boy; I am too much of a mess to be in an exclusive relationship. This will all promptly be fixed. My issues will be addressed. I will be well. The tooth fairy is real, and she is having sex with a leprechaun.

I am small, like a dot that is easy to ignore

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February 11th, Year of Taurus

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