Britney

What a gas it is, self-annihilation (gallows humor?). “Half alive is not dead.” I am sick.

            Sick

                    Sick!

And I play the role of pathetic little thing (this reference to Tracey Emin comes via Jenny Zhang’s Poetry piece) not only on my own poorly-built stage, but in the stages of others as well; I am a wild, unformed mess/mass dragging myself across well-lit Broadway stages. I am disappointing at such a rapid pace that I wonder if I could fit into any of the many hat boxes on the flight from Tel Aviv-Yafo to my native city. I am a hunched over, dull-eyed baby seal being clubbed over the head with the harsh surprise of life and ugly New York accents. I miss the French and I miss the Dutch. If this were my suicide note, it would be a very ugly one (would it?).

I feel as if I will be dead soon; this is not synonymous with thinking I will be dead soon. It is more or less an instinct. Some would call it a psychic touch. I know what I want, but not within these parameters. I am being institutionalized; this will be number three.

For the first time in my life, I long to finally be 18 so that I can escape the ugliness of this country and welcome Amsterdam and the small cities of France once again. Anything from here on out will be a race against time. ♦