(honey bees and parentheses)

well, i just went to poetry.com to try and read all the poems i wrote many years ago, and i couldn't. i have no idea why. it wouldn't let me. anyway. today was something else. i don't think i am going to go to bed tonight. i drank a lot of coffee, and i'm sure that if i try to sleep, i'll just end up lying in my bed for three or four hours and gradually become more and more uncomfortable. then i'll get up and take a second bath, {i always take one before i go to bed} smoke a cigarette in the tub, which has become one of my favorite things, read art in america, and then i'll feel more uninteresting and unoriginal and boring than i've felt in a long time. i'll think about growing old and getting married and having some man say to me, "let's have a baby," then being pregnant, having kids, being an art teacher, getting old, and then dying. and i'll cry myself to sleep. not really. but that scenario i just presented scares the shit out of me. shivers up my spine just thinking about it now. i think the most frightening idea i have ever had, was when i drove through the "bird streets" and looked at all the plastic, muted tone houses with their strange, unnatural lawns and their lack of vegetation, character and appeal, and i thought, "what if i lived in one of these homes, with my working husband and kids that i had to take to soccer practice. i'd spend my days doing errands that revolved around decorating the house and buying groceries. and i'd be busy as hell doing those things everyday. then i'd pick up my kids, make dinner, and have missionary-style sex with my suit of a husband." ... i just dry-heaved again.