I love this

So....I wrote this in May of 2009 and I completely forgot about it. And it cracks me up. I can't believe some of the things I write. It's so weird reading your own writing. It's like dreaming.

"Good ness. Could I feel any less artistic. I look at the goodness and greatness and beauty and VOICE of all these people, all these people I know who have talent dripping out of their fingers and flowing from their toes and pouring off of their tongues and leaking out of their ears. I wish I could rub them on a canvas or use their bones as ceramics tools and their hair for paintbrushes. Relics of art! I would be their worst nightmare. A serial killer who preys on the artistic, who jealously guards their every move and waits for the perfect time to strike and then use their abilities as my own. I’m not jealous so much as I would like to know who I am, what’s the damn reason I have all these strange feelings and visions for. Why do those blank walls stare at me like antagonists, reading my thoughts and mocking me. Wishing for frames and black sulpur pots wrapped in linen to disgrace their mothers. And whatever happened to the lady wolf who suckled her young and then thought of books and how she’d very much like to read someday. Just like a 18th century woman, all wrapped up in furs and minstrels and rabbits. And when I live I can’t help but think that I’ve been wasting my time doing nothing productive or useful or least of all what I want to do. Why do we have talent Jesus? Tell me why because I don’t understand why my hats never satisfy and why I justify art and creativity as if they were bad things.

Because they can make a mint. What good is it to gain the whole world and forfeit your soul? What good is it to gain the whole world and forfeit your imagination? Forfeit your artistry? Forfeit your dreams? Forfeit your life? The whole world is only broken and bruised and filled with lava the color chocolate and the smell of shit. And I wrap my hair around a pencil and my heart fills with strange desires because I am idealistic and young and riding the crest of the religious right wave of culture and fantasticality!

The more I think about it, the more I know that this book report isn’t going to get done. :P

Suck on that bear mountain clay."