Science, bitches!

It calms me. As does recounting this past, all this past that is a part of me and will never belong to my ex. There, he was not there for everything it’s not like my whole life is ending. He never knew me. There was so much he never knew, and I am still all of that. My collarbones hurt, pinching in towards my throat on that place that I love so much on a man, and yes on him. On the place that I know, from my previous studies, autistic and aspergers patients focus on instead of the face in social interactions. On the place where animals focus, on the place where you must be sure to control when you’re facing down dogs so that they know that you are dominant, and you have orders for them.

For Once I’m not Writing for Money

There’s an awful lot that happens. Again, The Order of Time, it feels like a lot when it’s happening but not much at all once it’s gone, crumpled and put into the pile with all the other rough drafts of days. This way I hit publish, this way I place the dots on a timeline, this way I can look back and flip through or search the index or somehow manage to hang on to the enormity of the year. This really has been a year, I don’t think people, or myself, are ready to accept that. How do we accept what just happened, mountains of bodies, our friends.

This one has to get a title

I don’t know why every white man will literally take the most busted ass white girl over an Ivy League, Playboy model Penthouse quality Black girl. Please someone answer this for me. <=== there is no question mark because fuck you this is not a question.