Romance of Daisy and Gatsby
Tropic of Capricorn
Today begins my little tete-a-tete with Henry Miller. I
lost my mothers copy, and in a desperate struggle to cover
it up i went into the bookstore where i used to work. I
took my new boyfriend (so confusing, i'm unused to dating
someone from school) and i saw Spencer. He immediately
walked away when i approached and i screamed inside. why? i
messed up, but please talk to me! anyways, that's the end of an era
for me. I no
longer can be cool and have older friends and access to all
that which is "punk". so anyways back to dork me.
Henry Miller. Erotica from the 1920's, with opium and Paris
and the agony of the world. I am jealous. That's where i
should be, in paris fucking whores and writing in a cafe.
but no, i am a girl, born in the 80's, and the strongest
drug i can get a hold of is weed. so instead i pretend i'm
a hippie, my boyfriend is embarassed by my hippie clothes,
but that's his problem. i like the way i dress, it flows my
from body like water and makes me feel like i'm floating,
and only when i'm in my floaty clothes do i feel beautiful.
when i'm dressed like the main-stream i feel stupid, a
wannabe. who cares what other people say? i do, but in
order to be the goddess that i am i must rebel, and wear
gypsy skirts and smoke on the weekends and tell people i am
a reincarnated hippie who was killed for her bisexual
oh Henry Miller, won't you marry me? I'm almost as
beautiful as Anias Nin.