deconstruction zone

today, after much procrastination, I've begun to dissolve my belongings. the idea of getting rid of everything would seem like such an enlightening process, a certain freeing venture to simply trash the bits and pieces that help me remember who I've been, sell what I can and run. it's going to be a lot harder than I thought. the first drawer I opened I found dried roses from jorge's memorial service, an empty coke baggy, and a bunch of letters I wrote to jon but never sent. I've got a dresser full of skeletons, and I can't take them with me. if I've been in a cocoon for the past year, and now is my time to re-emerge as a different woman, I don't know how to manage the remembrance of my past. is it necessary? maybe I should just say fuck it and make a bonfire on the street corner full of duralogs and dog-eared pictures and movie stubs and incriminating journal entries written on cocktail napkins and stained shirts that my grandma darned for me and everything that will ever remind me to miss anything. I know this all sounds a bit melodramatic, but christ, isn't it? stuff, it's just stuff, bullshit stuff I've been dragging around with me. half of it I haven't touched in years, but having it safely jammed in the dark recesses of a cabinet makes me feel better. it's proof, it's evidence. it's morbid to think at all, but if I met some tragic and untimely end in a freak accident or even a rather ordinary one that you might skim in the obits and think to yourself, "thank god I didn't ride the n train that day", and someone were to excavate my living space, what would they think? what would they learn? what secrets and unturned rocks would they pore over? 5 years of important papers and pay stubs and unpaid bills in various heaps and a trunk full of diaries, half finished art projects and moldy coffee cups. sequined hot pants. complete discographic collections of bright eyes and britney spears, respectively.

without junk, I feel like I'd be nowhere girl. but then, say my house burned down? I would survive. I would survive without 700 dried up nail polishes in a purple caboodle I got in 7th grade and a stack of 40 photobooth strips. even rationalizing through all of these frenzied thoughts doesn't make sense to me. this must be why people get tattoos... no matter what transpires, it's marked forever.

I'm currently toying with the idea of a giant cursive "L" on my forehead. somebody shoot me with a xanax blowdart, please.