CONFESSIONS #1
I cannot throw a punch, though I have tried. I think I am a decent writer, but I think I am a better poet. I hate love poems. Dinner tonight is rigatoni and sauce from a jar. There was no dinner last night. I do not mind romantic comedies. I can be a bit of a drama-butchqueen. I stole the term “butchqueen” from an impossibly beautiful 20-year-old who I am just a little bit in love with. I can take a punch, sort of. Lying disgusts me. I believe I am living in the wrong time, in the wrong place. I value good penmanship. I prefer pencils. I worry about money always but try hard to seem as though I don’t. I am currently covered with bruises. There are many red, painful pricks on my left hand from where I accidently leaned on a cactus last night. I am not graceful. I think I have subtly pretty eyes. Losing friends and lovers unsettles me deeply. I am occasionally arrogant; I am more often uncertain. Robert Frost is my archenemy. Blood makes me nervous.
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