| June 2, 1999 | |
      
Scribblings: I write in order to get to my destination, like the pen is my broomstick and the paper, my map. But on that daily trip, I miss the little sister napping and the tea-water stewing. And my life becomes a series of good-bye. |
It's not that I'm skeptical of who I'm writing for, it's
that I'm skeptical of who I am writing as. And at this
point, I don't even want to waste time writing a huge
essay identifying my voices that I choose to adapt
in every different type of writing in which I indulge.
Online journaling has given birth to a mixed breed of
personas within me, and I think that persona has hit
puberty. Tomorrow, I go to Jury Duty. And then I listen to my mom bitch about my dad and his wife, and then subtley bitch about J. and how I have to let him make his own mistakes and blah blah blah. IE, don't fall into my footsteps: trust no one. Fuck it. If it weren't for a place to sleep and the need to stretch my tentacles for some supportive mothering, I would try to move on and create my own family, my own circle of support. Utopia.
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