i wonder what it would be like to have someone's unearned adoration?
he and i have decided to split up, live in separate beds and day planners or something.

i'm ready to sort of start living a solitudinous way, where i don't worry about making an impression on anyone. it should be hard, but it isn't. it's always made more sense for lisa to reject the company of others rather than embrace it. were any great writers actual shut-ins? any writers i like? and if so, did they spend their entire hermit career writing about the things they had experienced before they locked the doors and windows? can someone actually write something worthwhile from the safety of a blackened closet and a laptop glow?

i feel like i'm being swindled. eloise was like this and she was useless. how depressing it is to identify so closely with a character who wrote to the company that makes loo-roll holders as an exercize in human contact and kept rotten mangoes on the windowsill.

do you remember that story about the woman who fell in love with the fifteen year old boy who mowed her lawn? she swallowed him. she went to a dinner party with her husband, boy still inside, and he found her stomach lining incredibly sexy. he began to jerk off into it, thumping and making little bumps on her belly, and when he finally ejaculated the woman spewed a stream of semen across the room.

same author as the woman who grew a tiny tooth in her belly button, it looked like a little ivory jewel. eventually her whole body turned to sediment. or the woman who fell in love with the oak tree, every night its branches would snake through the window and envelope her, tickling and holding her. she got pregnant with a baby acorn and by the end an oak tree was bourne of her ruptured, rooted body.


i'd forgotten about those.
hi anna.