ack. i feel so awful, that creepy crawly dis-ease of feeling as if i don't belong here, once again, is shooting needles in my neck and making me feel as if everything i say in class is an accidental retch flaming into the netherworlds of people's napkins. i'm, like, infectious. it's also related to just being who i am, a dyke, any time there is any reference to it i automatically feel as tho there is this solid wall of granite separating me from the others. ever read the wind-up bird chronicle? i'm thinking of that well, how i need to go in it and find out what's going on inside. why am i freaking.

of course, it's after-wkshp time and it's only natural. everyone else is at a bar, or something.

and. ok, confessional moment, i gave erica her books back. she came out during our "break" and it was the first thing i said to her, like a reflex, uh, i have your books in my car, can i like unload them and give them back because they remind me of you and it's like a huge weight i don't want to have on my back right now...ok, so i didn't say that exactly, but i did bounce and retreived her books and she & matt stood there smoking shivering until i returned, and since i haven't seen her in like a month i thought ok here goes let's talk, so i got some of the nasty coffee and we chittered and she said she's going to apply to film school, got her self a digital camera and i asked her if she was the star of her recent productions and she giggled again and as she walked away as if she couldn't bear to be near me anymore said no she was mostly shooting flowers. she would.

can you tell? i'm not. bothered. nooo.

and i wanted to talk to this girl here who has been really nice in the past but she was talking with sandra the loopy one who doesn't trust women who everyone crushes on. and the deal is this. i want to make new friends yet because everyone thinks i am a big ole milfhunter dyke, if i call someone out of the blue, or even approach them now, i'm afraid they'll think i'm coming on to them. i feel like people think of me as some sort of pervert and predator. and they all read my work, probably laugh about it, don't say anything useful. i wish i could write and not have them read it, everyone reads everyone's because it's published for everyone. and then people respond to other's poems, in their peoms. so so so insular! nobody here inspires me to get wacky and do battle and enjoy. eveyone inspires me to slit my wrists and let the fluids flow where they may and then have the big heads come with their containers and apparatus to fix my broken mess.

ranting? things to look forward to?
shower. sleep. i can't think of anything else.