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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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05.10.04, monday night

Ever since my return from San Diego, I have been dealing with oscillating fits of rage and depression, which I try, uselessly, to drown in whisky. How is a person supposed to write a novel under the useless limitation of that idea I love to loathe: community? Oh, community! To whom I owe all breath, emotional health, and self-understanding! To whose antiquated ideals I must shackle myself, at the detriment to my worth as a creative human being! And me, I'm just a girl and I ain't worth a damn beyond who I wed and how I wed. Dammit, dammit, dammit.




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