TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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This chapter is burdened by every other piece of writing I've ever done. I begin to feel a little alien to myself, unable to find joy except in sudden spasms of speech or movement, like shouting random lyrics ("I'm a fountain of blood in the shape of a girl") along a bike path, or dancing frantically about the house, so as to give form to a sensibility, a persistent way of being I feel I must repress in order to write. OOF.