|Wild Emo|

Muse. I thought it was cute.
It's been a handful of times I've been called that. Never by women.

There was this fun little Parisian first-wave feminist named George Sand. I can never read her work without finding some preface about her life. "Romantically linked with Frederic Chopin, Franz Liszt, Alfred de Musset..." and other dead people.

I raised my hand in class one day and posed the question why the hell I had to know who she fucked in order to have a reference point on her theories.
Someone raised their hand back at me and claimed to have seen some sort of docu on her life. The movie portrayed her as being the muse of the the many men- most artistic, or of some social standing.

There are women that exist like that. I think I'm one of them. No eg-o.
It's one of those jobs you like at first.

"You're a muse for me"
Oh...cool, do I get health benefits?
No. Just think out loud, and be cute about it.

Then one day, probably a day like March, it hits you in a totally unrelated incident.

You're watching Before The Music Dies next to your friend and her boyfriend
he has his arms around her, and she keeps doing things that hit you like nails on chalkboards:
whisper whisper
cute face
kiss here
kiss there
more whisper
random laughter

You're not bitter. You're just confused because he does the things back. He's not distant. He doesn't just let her attack him with rampant affection- he does it back. You stop and think....these people like each other, genuinely.

George Sand was in love with some republican lawyer when she wrote a journal entry in which she argued with herself and her alter ego about how to genuinely reciprocate love in a society where women are deemed inferior.

This really isn't about me being a woman.
It's the give and take of it all.

How much love can you give away as a woman if you're deemed inferior to your lover?
How much inspiration can I give away as a muse if I have none to even move me?

This is confusing and you're probably confused.
It's fitting, because I am too.

I'm not a first-wave Parsian feminist.
I just think I know how it feels to be one a little.

|Spring Break|

I'm sitting on my futon surrounded by a couple of empty chocolate milk cartons with cartoon cows on the front.
I just returned to glorious Philadelphia after a week-long stay in NYC.
My brain feels broken; but that's not a new development.

I had a Spring Break.

It felt less like a collegiate spring break, and more like the kind you take to keep from losing your mind. This is under my own pretense that collegiate spring breaks (via Beaches, horny kids, & the fun world of stds) are designed to ultimately help you along the path to losing your mind.

I'm living in a good age now. The Age of Celebrity Culture. Every week my mom calls me and tells me something new I didn't know about Britney Spears. I used to get mad at her. "Mom, you're way too smart to be talking about this crazy white lady so much". I couldn't really get why she, or anyone else for that matter would be so fascinated.

Then, I stayed in New York for a week and realized I was losing my mind.

Now, the neat thing about losing your mind is that the whole process is totally in and out of your control. At this very moment, I have decided that I'm losing my mind, but it's taken a while to get me here: hence, the things out of your control.

It's a long road. You make choices over time, and then you're walking down 34th and 7th one day trying not to get killed or kidnapped by African street vendors and you start crying. You look up at all the skyscrapers and you feel that they're too big. The hot nut carts smell too sweet. Stupid ass chicken on a stick smoke is all in your face. No one speaks English. You did not choose to live in this world.

You come home. You still owe your landlord rent. Your bathroom floor is soaked and you don't know why. A part of you has died literally, but it's a secret. You want better friends. You want to make better music. You like a boy and it is complicated.

You're really tired of pretending that everything is okay.

You are losing your mind, and you are not even famous.
Don't nobody care about no rehabs for you. No one comes out with a tray of oversized dark glasses for you. You are losing your mind before you even are important.
There are rumours that you are just growing up. You wish those people would just be quiet.

It's okay. You went to Sephora and bought too much new make-up and nail polish to distract you. At least you're still pretty.

Monday's coming. Your teeth are kinda straight.