FACEs are only on my piano.

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Diary: I Feel Pretty

Password: iamlovedalot

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My life is pixelated, populated by unfathomable faces, persons unknown. All day I walk around looking at shoes, hanging my head like it’s chained to Hell, avoiding eye contact as if it conducts a new strain of the black plague. Perhaps wondering, pondering the self-censored cardboard cutouts that frump into and out of my life morning day and night. Ask me what she looks like, what she wears. I couldn’t say. Remember her? Him? Them? It? Vaguely. The back of my mind works overtime to keep meaning at a distance. Glasses are my brain’s way of saying Don’t Look Now. I don’t. Without the tinkered lenses everything geometrizes into the basic shapes. Lamp-ish, bed-ish, friend-ish. With glasses, things get complicated. Pixels, black boxes over faces. Whatever it takes to show you that I’m not the friend to cry to. My shoulders are too low too broad too water-resistant. ### The nutgraf clearly coincides with another L word Funk. I’d like to slap some fictional characters around, and then maybe start with my future self. Stupid things clamor to cram my horoscope yet I still run home to fortune cookies at night, not sophisticated enough to chopstick my rice, not desperate to get drunk and dial for extended metaphors i can’t afford. ###