what does it matter? they come and go, noone to be controlled or wooed. you write what you write and they come and they go and so on. i can't fill this space ever with what's expected. i pour in frustration and disappointment waiting for the last few pages to turn, waiting for the credits to roll.

a quick hard blow to the head should jog the knowing, put the blinders permanently on. floating through life preoccupied with nail color and my husband's snoring, whether to go through the mcdonald's drive through, or what the happy meal toy is this week.

why should i walk by the bumps in the road? the reason behind a 12 yr old's suicide hanging? the payback that's sure to come when i call someone else's bluff...

i cannot bring myself to step into church. it's full of bogus unity. bring back the latin mass and mystery. god isn't a buddy, but someone to be feared.

i'm not psychotic, but dammit, i should be by now...