My Mama Nora.Etc.

 
I love my mother. She’s still alive but I find myself crying when I think about her. It’s making her very unhappy. Me, not teaching. I wish people could mind their own business…leave us alone. I just won’t dance the triple tango for people I don’t know. Having a broken heart is hell enough. It really is.
 
* * * *
 
I’d never break a heart. If my mother dies ahead of me, I wouldn’t be able to say that I broke her heart. I’m cowering in fear at home because these g*d damn strangers are relentless…doesn’t break my mom’s heart. Just makes her quite unhappy. Three rooms on the 2nd floor, painted in the hue of a g*d damned motel…I’m in 1 of the rooms like some jail bird. It’s called keeping myself alive, for my mother. I’m still alive. This makes my mom happy.
 
* * * * *
 
It hurts me when my mama talks about him. I wonder about all the bad luck I’ve been getting. I wish I’d never met him. He’s become the only guy whose heart I couldn’t melt. Just when the world has all these gadgets…some guy who tends goats in Russia has just said goodnight to his Indonesian girlfriend — the girl eating slices of guava inside an internet cafe.
 
Here I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’m cursing everything and everyone I can think of. Feeling sorry that he’s the one guy whose likeness I’ve ever tried to draw. God help me, he’d hate how he looks like the guy who heats up the pages of graphic piece I’m trying  to finish. I don’t care since what I do is called art. I do hate, as well…anyway.
 
I hate how there’s nothing to replace his, " But you don’t have me." with.
 
Here’s a guy who can stand it…giving me a broken heart that’s for keeps.
 
* * * * *
 
Probably makes him very happy and very content. Him being the type who only likes to do things…perfectly.
 
He’s broken my heart in the most perfect way.
 
 
* * * * *
 
These dogs are so lovely. All these crazy sounds are lovely. As lovely as Twilight Zone episodes from the early 90s.
 
I feel like a mystery novel writer living in a no star hotel…somewhere in the US. Maybe New York.
 
13 doesn’t chill my heart. I happen to think that it’s a lucky number. 1 + 3 = 4.
 
* * * * *
 
When do people learn, huh? You can’t beat our heads down with your caveman clubs. Quit it. Go away.
 
Artists will be artists. I’m not cutting an earlobe for anyone. I’ve lost my Cezanne.
 
* * * * *
 
When he kissed my cheeks, I suddenly felt: very, very young.
 
* * * * *
 

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