My big takeaway from being an androgynous transexual hooker is that there are a lot of bisexually quiet men who want to buy me clothes that perspectively are worthless. Low key it blows me that any of us are carrying around secrets when we have so little time, it would be nice to be known. Made plans for Thursday to beat a semi pro cyclist up, like thank gawd, honest touch is needed; touch will become long standing love then rupture upon a sudden crisis. After we fuck I want to keep her body part of my body instead of letting her fade, but my mind drifts back to another, maybe just because we both grew up barefoot in central Illinois. 

I got a degree in sustainability though more than the earth, I love flicking my cigarette off the fire escape to see the ember spiral in the dark, bouncing off the cars beneath, down to sidewalk earth-muddy puddles— but more than that I hate smoking cigarettes. I want to feel joy and not be afraid: God is in the water lately. Waves crash in two, collapsing in unity to surge all over. 

My roommate got drunk and broke down our door because they forgot their keys just to blame me the next morning for not waking up to let them in and I’m being God's calmest little militant about it. I'm trying to perfect my grandma's caramel recipe, wondering whether the difference between a therapist and a sex worker is getting to whisper little secrets to your friends, defining the unique boundary according to how much cruelty you’re craving that month. I long and worry whether a girl is avoiding me or if modern life for both of us is an extended Autistic crisis or a happiness fixation or if taking part in the majority of the world is to act in disposition and we can only continue to be humans able to act, realizing what we share with our whole world is vital, while our individual relationship is not. 

I spend a whole scene of the Sopranos thinking about the surgeries I could have to look like Adriana then last second realize the scene is her shooting dope alone in bed, save a toy dog on her lap. To be exposed to a role model in our worst moments… It's extremely lacking to find out through an instagram story that someone I used to share a bed with won’t be turning 26 today because she’s dead instead of busking her banjo on a street corner; that worse, she’s been dead for half a decade and I, so far from that point in my life, just haven’t known.When I look at my dog on a cold walk, my teeth stop chattering, so I smoke a cigarette of strength, look at the hollow moon then Jupiter, then an airplane that’s more than anything else, white light in the distance. It’s always so hard not to get another beer but when I come home tonight from walking, I do go for tea: pau d’arco, or something yellow I wish was chamomile or the warm piss of someone romantic with clear communication skills. Girl, I’m dreaming of being pregnant like I didn’t get to have an imagination growing up. I’m giddy and on fire. 

How did I ever attempt to write while not on fire? Tomorrow is a very two cigarette morning. The dot over an i bleeds into a heart shape while journaling. When I told her I was emotionally into us, she asked what I meant, and nervous, I mumbled “I have a crush” then sucked her off, and I liked her cum but that wasn’t how I meant to reply.