There is nothing special about me other than that I wish I were a genius.

You know what’s weird? I’m a wife. And I’m bored, and I’m at home, and I’ve been cooking all day. Fucking cooking. That makes me a housewife. Flash back with me three measly years. My head is shaved, I’ve given up wearing glasses or contacts because I’m sure my vision will heal naturally through solar gazing, I’m avidly pursuing mind-bending drug encounters, and I’m a politically radical, genderless college senior living in dingy apartments that don’t seem dirty because I’m not wearing glasses or contacts. 
So how and when did this change occur? I don’t know. I guess because my spirit is made of water I just became my surroundings. Become the glass. Become the glass. Become the glass. Were any of those qualities that used to define me ever really a part of me? And this is where I run into the idea of me. It’s this invisible wall I hit every time I am lamenting my meaningless existence as a wage slave. There is no me. I am simply a set of circumstances, and I can choose and direct many of the circumstances which shape me. I am nothing more than the consciousness attempting to direct an inevitable sequence of events. And on top of that, my body isn’t me either. It’s more microorganism than human. So I can’t even claim ownership over the thing which fundamentally identifies me, my physical self. And this is the point at which I detach. If I am this changeable, then I am just going to relax into the course I’m on. I will feed into the momentum, rather than trying to halt it and step out and take a look to figure out what the hell is going on here.

So that’s what brought me to now. To this armchair in a dark apartment in goddamn Texas, with a different last name, waiting for my husband to come home so I can be happy again.

It’s not that I don’t recognize myself, because I do. I’ve just changed. Or rather, my whole life has. And I’m still coming to grips with it. I’m young. Forgive me.

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