cleaning out my drafts for the end of the world

Reasons replacement therapies never work with trich

Your doctor will tell you that you need to find something to do with your hands. You start beading bracelets, pinching tiny seeds between your nails, tying eensy knots. But you fuck them up, you start to get tired, your mind wanders and when it wanders it always finds something awful, and your fingers start to roam and before you know it there’s ponies rolling all over the carpet and facets in the couch cushions and you’ve lost an hour. You snap the elastic bands against your wrist but it never hurts enough, it never sounds sharp enough, and you will always want more.

You stitch and embroider, but black threads and french knots start to look like roots. Images creep into the corners of your vision and you can’t push them back and they flood your sight and all you can see are those tiny things you want more than anything else in the world. Your fingers bend and you rip out every stitch but it’s not enough.

  1. On voler and Nicki Minaj, in which I am obligated also to talk about Lady Gaga and Madonna or whatever
  2. On voler and the celebrity shoplifter, literally/otherwise
  3. On voler and girl bands ironically/triumphantly covering sexist punk/power pop songs; including the times when that wasn’t the case, and maybe also Lesley Gore. Or, like, “Goodbye Earl”
  4. On voler, Sylvia, Helen Gurley Brown, and please let me come up with a way to fit Jane Pratt in here somewhere