rough gem

God I screwed up. I know I say and feel that a lot but this time it's for real. I don't know how to fix this, nor do I think it can be fixed.

Elise and I started drinking last night. Somewhere between shots #6and7, we realized that we both are going to die. Mind you, this is mostly Elise talking. She feels that I am the embodiment of the past authors, all female...from the known greats (i.e. Dickinson and Plath) to the anonomous voices.

----I mean, what did Virginia Woolf say, "For most of history- Anonymous was a woman."----

But, I am not destined to write. I am not going to become one of the greats, she says. I am destined to suffer, to be the scapegoat for all of their past frusturation and everything that goes wrong. I am supposed to suffer, be in the worst pain imaginable so in my next life...whatever being takes my form, can be the next great soul.

Elise got this vison of my death, before even knowing I owned the dress or the notebook. She said that I am going to die in a grey room with white draperies flowing all around it. There is going to be a mahogany desk and Shostakovich playing. I'm going to be wearing a short sleeve, white, floor-leingh dress (as in exactly the one I just bought for Plath-day in class) and my hair is going to be down and somewhat wavy...like it is after I don't flat iron it after sleeping on it. Elise says I am going to be writing in my black Molskine notebook with my silver fountain pen. She says I will be drinking a very fantastic vodka gimlet. I will just slump over in my seat and die. Unmarred (asise from the completly destroyed scars I already have). Unmarred by age, I am to die by the time I reach 30. And that scares the shit out of me.

I know it probably doesn't mean anything...it was just one of our fantastic, inebriated, pseudo-intelliectual discussions...but what if it does? What if I am never going to be one of the greats? What if I am destined to die alone in a dark room with almost an eretherial presence? What if I am going to die 10.5 years from now?

I haven't even begun to live.

After coming to realization that we are excruciatingly fucked up, Elise and I ended up going out to fake the happy thing. As usual though, her presence stole the attention and I became...almost invisable...to everyone there. So I went over to someone's room and drank some more. It's what I do... But my friend, Irving, who's room I went to...he had this amazing strobe light going. Not gonna lie, when youre hammered, strobe lights are amazing. But, by that point it was like 5am and I had pretty much drunken myself into a stupor so I thought it best to go back to my room and pass out.

Except that I couldn't sleep. So what do I do, but break open my notecards and study sheets for my American lit exam. I'm still disgustingly confuzed by Poe's "Philosophy of Composition". I think I'm just really bad with all of the theory stuff. I don't know why. Part of me thinks having theories and such complicates the beauty of just writing. The sheer moment of taking a pen to paper and just letting everything inside of you flow out and create somthing magical. It might not be seen as "good". But, fuck that. It's not supposed to be good, nor is that what writing is about.

I have this idea that every artist, regardless of medium, is a sellout the second someone purchaces their work. You sell out when you alter your work for an audience. it no longer becomes exactly what you wanted to say, it is somewhat part of someone elses. It's not as pure. And I know I'm hypocrytical because even being in school and not having someone directly purchase my work, I made styilistic alterations towards each professer's personal preference. For instance, my Terrorism&Justice professer is writing a book on gendered political violence right now, so I know if I throw in a few quips about rape as a violent wartime tactic, she'll be like hmmmm. Or even with thesis papers. I make it a point to pick a topic that not everyone else in the class is going to write about so when it comes to grading papers, my professers stop and really see my work, hopefully resulting in a better grade for me. Hopefully, but not always.

I thought sleep would help last night. Help me realize that I am not that broken, that there is somthing good left in my life. But, I'm really just not seeing it. Everything in my life is broken.

Everything I touch turns to dust.