September, 2002: One of the worst Septembers, ever. Thank you, Mercury retrograde, for bouts of miscommunication and travel that ends in accidents and poison oak. Oh, and don't get me started on the Bush regime. . . Now night-long sessions of Etta James and Mazzy Star, coupled with isolation from everybody because bodies seem so grotesque and my own seems untouchable, even to me. Waiting for October, autumn coats to hide every centimeter of destroyed skin.




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