November 30, 2000: Hand painted landscape

I’m hurt! I’m frustrated! I’m angry! I’m used and spent! I’m a bar bitch who can’t get anyone to buy her a drink. I want this pain to leave! I want it to spill out and stop being picked up by innocent bystanders. My words are violent! My thoughts suicidal! I can’t take this punishment anymore! I can’t protect myself; it makes me look even worse. Please! Will someone help me? This lack of being respected bursts out of me like someone who’s got the shits…I just happen to play in mine. Writing everyday can be compared to ripping my arm open with a rusty razor blade—I’m totally numb while I bleed, near death when re-read—I call it a daily resurrection.