A Day in the Life of Leah:

Walked through the advent spiral last night, with the boy who I hooked up with 5 years ago watching and this old lady's young fuck-toy watching.

Thought about how my family in Colombia wants me to be with them.
How my dad in Detroit wants me to be with him.
How my mom in Raleigh wants me to be with her.

My roots.

Then I got self conscious because I thought I had stepped over one of the boughs on the ground.

I'm not a victim. I came from a weird childhood, but I'm not the victim. I'm not gonna let that take over me. It's not as simple as I'm just "imitating my mother's revolving-door-lifestyle." I'm not like that.
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This lifestyle is so foreign. The drinking of "cheap" wine in a giant house before going to celebrate more luxury. Darling, I wish I had the privilege to call that wine cheap. To me, it's wine. It's good. It's fermented grapes. Should I be flattered that you thought I would even have an advanced enough palette to discern good from bad? I can't even do that with people. Why would I care about the alcohol.

What the hell am I supposed to when you've invited us into your house, and your husband is making the "call me" sign to me across your crowded kitchen? Do I yell? Do I break my glass and tell the guy he can eat it? Do I decide, okay... and go fuck him in his bathroom? Why was I so passive? All it took was me to turn my cheek, and the situation didn't exist anymore.
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This fucking thing of comfort is oppressive. So sad.

Listening to Steve Hedges sing while he's doing the dishes is really funny. I don't think he knows I'm awake/downstairs.

Last night, some guy who was working for children's international came up to me in Harvard Square. Blah, blah, blah. It felt good to tell him no one owns me. That I can't give money to his organization, because a) the information he's giving me is biased, and b) I don't have a checking/savings account, debit or credit card. No bank owns me. I only have cash.

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I've decided I'm taking the writing route in life... after some very long, very hard thought. I'm going back to school (not back to Sterling) to work on my skills, my research ability and my ability to be concise. It's the only thing I've ever felt driven to do.

After coming back from Denmark, I've realized that full-time farming is just one giant anchor. As much as it's the only logical thing to do, in my opinion. For me to have this big steely, carrot-rooted, 15 anchor weight attached to my ankle would drive me to kill myself. I was meant to be mobile. I have feet that are wheels.

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I just, I uh... I just have this dream about my words. That somewhere, some how down the line, what I write is going to touch somebody. Anybody. I'd love for my shit to be sitting on the SAC table and for somebody to pick that up. And read it. And flip through the pages. And look at the typeface. And then be inspired by the words. And move to do something.

I guess I just need to know what I'm talking about.
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To get back into the swing of writing for something, regularly, and receiving feedback.

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I know we're not even in the new year... but I'm giving myself 10 years. Until I'm 30 or by 2019/2020. If I can't support myself with my word... I'm moving on. I'll resign myself to sitting in a cubicle. Drinking coffee and wearing clothes from sears. With my husband I regret marrying. And my ugly dog.
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I really love the word "Deluxe" not because it means something to me. But just for what it is. And how it came to be a word. Also, "Bourgeoisie."

friends only

I'm bleeding.