whatever my gifts the pieces of good buried inside and under so much that i feel is bad, is wrong, is twisted...my gifts are for life itself, for an unfortunately astute understanding of all the cruelty and pain in the world...my gifts are unspecific...someone full of crazy ideas and grandiloquent needs and a little bit of happiness, but with no particular way to express it. the woman so full of...so full of...so full of something or other--its unclear what, but a definite energy that can't find its medium--who pokes her own eyes out with scissors and is murdered by a lover in an insane asylum
i am becoming a complete waste.
mom:"janet you're not going to get depressed moving back home are you?"
janet:"no, i mean theres people i know moving up here too and i'll find a job and everthing'll be great."
mom:"well i know that this was not your original plan."