I am a melancholy, drifting mermaid, bedded in soft seaweed, whose head has inexplicably been invaded by the Russian navy on one side. The other half… dead.
I am angry. I want to have control over something. I want this insidious, ghostly malificent Medusa in my head rooted out like weeds, evil black viney strands pulled out one by one and left in a heap on the floor like hair at a beauty salon. I want the snakes neutralized.
I am going to add to this entry now. When I first wrote it, I was thinking more about The Buckle and writing for a more general audience, even though I was already discussing really personal things. I just didn’t want to get into the details of my hospitalization that followed. I just turned 44….