authenticity on prom night

While scalding my tongue on a Grande-Extra Hot-No Whip-Soy-Six Shot Espresso-Four Shot Hazelnut-Vanilla Latte from the least authentic of places, the Starbucks that is attached to the close Whole Foods (the other is a 20-minute drive, and with gas prices these days, who can afford the trip, much less the food?), I said to my self, "Self, what are you?". And, while still sipping the offending beverage, I realized my faded skintight jeans and ironic tee paired with pink ballet flats, obnoxiously bright scarf tied in a way that is just too complex to do and takes twenty minutes every morning (so cool that now even Jezebel is making fun of it) and vintage biker jacket, and glaring through sunglasses so big a majority of my face is obscured, we are all the same. Hipsterocity is no longer authentic, thus the ultimate irony of a style's demise: designed with the intention of not caring and being one's true self, is so hip now that everyone is doing it-- from the soccer moms to the 2.5 brats they're toting around. It's an atrocity I tell you: "my authenticity has been stolen," I think as I down the rest of my latte that has now reached a drinkable temperature and walk out. At my car, I see the woman who dropped the eggs a few days ago glaring at me, too bad she tucked her skirt into her hose, hag.

the weight of the world is love

Allen Ginsberg is haunting me. Not in the eery, poetic way... more so in the "I'm going to find you and kill you because you are not yet published, Miss Mari" way. I see his hair- vaguely reminiscent of a mad professor- and owl glasses that sheathed nearly expressionless eyes in my dreams. 

Not that I am dreaming much, as of late.

It is not that I do not want to publish, oh Great Ghost of Ginsberg Past. I do. However, generally publishers enjoy having a manuscript of sorts to work with. Or so I've been told. 

(the tea I am drinking tastes like marijuana)

I write constantly. Maybe not constantly, but rather I THINK about writing constantly. Life tends to get in the way of said things, though. Life, and dead poets popping into torrid fantasies between myself and David Duchovny (uninvited, if I may add).  

I enjoy broken people.