Itinerantdaughter's Blog

She said this:

“We have something esoteric and rare and here I go adulterating it with social networking and a fake internet self. This thing I am showing you avoids the mandate to write something “that doesn’t suck” by utilizing the writing of others. Self-expression by proxy (I like that idea).”
By-Proxy is all I feel capable of right now:

Dear diary, I’m afraid I’m gravely ill. It is perhaps times like these that one reflects on things past. An article of clothing from when I was young. A green jacket. I walk with my father. A game we once played. Pretend we’re faeries. I’m a girl faerie. My name is Laura Lee. And you’re a boy faerie. Your name is Tita Lee. Pretend, when we’re faeries we fight each other, and I say “Stop hitting me I’ll die!” And you hit me again and I say, “Now I have to die.” And then you say, “But I’ll miss you.” And I say, “But I have to. And you’ll have to wait a million years to see me again. And I’ll be put in a box, and all I’ll need is a tiny glass of water and lots of tiny pieces of pizza and the box will have wings like an airplane.” And you’ll ask, “Where will it take you?” “Home.” I say.

(Tag: Tiny Pieces of Pizza.)

(The font change is really pissing me off.)

Half Past Midnight

What good is an

Insomniac who is

not a poet?

“Hope is dope.” ~Ogden Nash