Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part XIII. [postmark: May 14th, 2015]

 

Hey.

Ugh, med change shrives hard, babe.  Not gross in a good way– especially month in: not enough of the old, anymore; not enough of the new, yet.  Bumsville, population: me.

I feel like I can’t leave me apartment; it’s uncomfortable even for a few minutes to answer the door.  Quit my job; luckily class is just papers, now— I’d go back to cutting if I didn’t have that to work on.  My primas are helping to cook for me, or I guess I’d starve.  Even inside, I get this uncontrollable, sorta, vibration, that feels like it echos up and down the god-damn building to all my neighbors.  My doc says it’s scent and gland based hypersexuality disorder— and when it’s like this it definitely is disorder, babe— know you hate that word, but I feel like I’m disturbing the public peace.  I feel like a monster.

Sweet sassy-molassey.  Just gotta remember the Institut training– make a list of goods and bads: stopped drinking completely, not cutting yet, GTA5 isn’t boring yet, this’ll be over in a month or two yet, and be back to classes and the kids with retardation in the Fall; yet I’m trapped in a steel box with a door I can’t exit, blocked out all natural light, running low on minutes, can’t see my friends, I’ve watched all the pornos on my three favorite sites everyday by eleven in the morning, I’ll have to move away from these neighbors when this is all over, and you won’t even talk to me about any of this.  ‘Bout sums it up.

flick. this.

Pat

 

 

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