I don't know if its worth it. To assert myself and the pain of achievement. The world's judgment of my products but at this point I am not incurring the kind of risk that generates stagnant or frozen fear. I want to be something else and I thrash against ideal circumstances. Biddy like I seem to be curling into a plastic bag toting leather jacket shrew. I need help with my bags. But yet I still go to dance at parties. Wait patiently behind the jagged corners of men spreading their weight maximally to close in groups of women. It lacks excitement. The promise of emails the Ricky's smell of wigs and weaves. Most beauty and counterculture came from people robbed of a childhood. I don't know if a grinding desire for ego validation is juice for creativity. Less a pain than a tearing. A constant muscle hunger and stretching out of the head toward others. I can say that what I could do to change my day is undefined. Depends on who I must become now or later