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I'm Dead! Ha! You Rotten Feminists Can't Catch Me Now! [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
Pity Me? Hate Me? YOU Decide.

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(no subject) [Aug. 28th, 2005|10:56 pm]
Pity Me? Hate Me? YOU Decide.
[mood |hothot]
[music |Jolene - Natalie Merchant]

It appears I am getting a handle on (ha! PUN! No wonder I am the Poet Laureate. *looks in mirror* Ahh I am so beautiful.) that whole materialization thing. I realized this after my 23rd orgasm with _emilydickinson last night. Now I can grasp whatever the hell I want. Oh Yeah. Lookout, pretty lady poets, here I come!

I only checked the gas stove 13,333 times today. My psychiatric sessions have been helping.

Also, I have finally bought The Journals of Sylvia Plath, which of course, I wrote the foreword to. How enlightening! I barely knew ANY of the stuff that was in there.  I was always too busy flirting with poetry groupies and banging Assia and shamelessly ignoring Sylvia's needs to pay her any mind. "Genius." Bah! I would say.

Damn old photos make me look like Bill Pullman.

The thing is, now I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really detest myself. That's why I went to see a shrink.

Death changed me alot. It gave me a conscience.

Maybe I should make up for my diabolicalness somehow. That is, when I am not busy getting laid. Any suggestions?

 

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(no subject) [Aug. 2nd, 2005|11:01 pm]
Pity Me? Hate Me? YOU Decide.
[mood |happyhappy]
[music |I am stretched on your grave]

It's such a relief being dead sometimes. I was down to Heptonstall today to visit dear Sylvia's grave, and I spied a bevvy of those bloody infernal boisterous man-hating femininazis. I always think they are boys at first, what with the buzzcuts, birkenstocks and flannel (and yes, dear reader, they do wear flannel in Britain), until I see them taking their chisels to my last name on Sylvia's headstone. I instinctively ducked and began to sprint away- until I recalled that lucky super mutant power of ghostness: Invisibility!
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(no subject) [Aug. 2nd, 2005|06:28 am]
Pity Me? Hate Me? YOU Decide.
[mood |anxiousanxious]
[music |Stayin Alive- BeeJees]

Today, I wrote a new poem. I call it, "The Tiger and the Princess". Here in the English countryside there aren't many tigers. It is a psychological tiger, a symbol of the predatory side of myself which feeds on princesses. But it is not my fault I tell you!

I checked the dial on the gas stove exactly 330,457 times today. I had to make sure it was off. Those things are dreadful! In fact, I spend as little time as possible in the kitchen. The electric bills would be far too expensive, what with my poet's salary. It's so hard to make ends meet without my royalties from Birthday Letters, but it's hard to get royalties when you are dead. Checks in the mail aren't much help when you are invisible and unable to pick anything up! Just like in Ghost, you know, with Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze which... speaking of death, where IS Patrick Swayze anyway? Boy, those American actors disappear so quickly!

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