It is funny to say "Bukowski is right" but Bukowski is right on his epitaph to tell us not to try. Frankl tells us that our obsessions with our neurosis are in fact the foodstuffs to keep them going. We fear our fear and the fear comes to get us. We expect it, our hair turns white at the onset of this supposition. I am silly and try not to try. My attempts this year at harnessing my thoughts and reckoning with my emotions has been largely successful, however, I am all too aware of the dangers of ultimate control. I lose myself on nuances, crying tears of joy in crowds. I grow angry at the injustice on behalf of a small spider I tried to spare but lost in my hair. All in good fun, yeah?

Oh let me count the ways

Not listening to lyrics, not cleaning my car, staring at my car, hating my car, the dream cargo shorts I have in mind that don't exist and i still don't know how to thread the bobbin on my sewing machine, the gigantic handbag my therapist gave to me made out of white cow fur and red snake skin, laughing, the dream I just had about wearing a mint one-piece bathing suit with adequate side-boob and stealing my neighbor's porsche several mornings in a row, eating fried oysters and drinking halloween kool aid (ghoul-aid), writing messages to paul, having 6 pimples on the right side of my face but none on the left side, changing my pillow case, talking to my aunts all night on the phone, vitamins, crying in my car, raising my hand in class, too scared to write poetry but knowing it is the best thing for me, picking at my legs now 5 years and counting, listening to elizabeth smart interview on the radio hearing her talk about how there wasn't a good choice for sun glasses, picking my favorite alarm to hate later on