Since I was 10 or so, I’d critique myself the way a good American girl should be critiqued… Am I on track? Am I pretty enough? Will they love me? Do they love me? What can I change, what can I learn to be loved more, to be safer, to be more bulletproof, to provide a higher profit? How much will they pay me for my neutrality or even endorsement? Am I going to heaven or hell? And which one I deserve.
And I created this bottom line in the mid-air, in the sky that could boom like thunder, BUT ARE YOU WRITING POETRY
yes, my drunk and sad reply. yeah. I can’t stop doing that, that’s the only thing we really like, so yeah, no matter.
Then you’re fine, says the lightening. You’re doing your job. Really can’t do much more. The gods love you, and can’t wait to snuggle with you like a pile of kittens or puppies.