If I were in a gang, my gang name would be “The Bloodjet.”

Today, I am trying to work out what bothers me most. I think it might be systems.

I try friendships on like clothing, and find most of them too small—or their overall effect unflattering.

My husband is going to find me locked in here with all this cake.

All my shames are mismatched.

The capacity animals have to trust, even after enduring unthinkable suffering and abuse, simply astounds me.

Staring out this window has everything to do with learning something about my life, and about living.

I just misread the words “living room” as “Mignon,” and now I miss my mother.

It is with the first look in a mirror that we come to know ourselves as a thing, as an object, and as something that—inexplicably—exists both inside and outside of us.

It is when we forget who bakes our bread, who processes our waste, who maintains our water lines, who buries our dead—it is when these people become anonymous that we can live inside the delusion that we have no attachments, no dependence, on others.

Living is controlled falling.

I am tired of egocasting: I want to write something else, read something else.

In the end, even our feces is turned into a commodity. We can’t take a shit without being sold.

I awake, reminded again of our dimity convictions and freckled human nature. So it is; so we are.

The signifier and the signified enjoy no relationship other than the one we impose through language. That bond can be broken as soon as perception is broken, challenged.

At first I felt like a trinket. For a while I felt like a person. Later I felt like a freak.

Search term that led someone to my site: “senile warts and irritable bowel syndrome.”

When I am an old woman I shall wear people.

Tomorrow, something will happen.

I am the voice of unreason.

I rise and greet this broken nose of a day.

They are coming to take my weekend—the minutes and the hours. I just know it.

This idea that everything must be solid, that everything must last forever, I think it’s misguided.

It seems to me that we are more committed to our own suffering than we are to just about anything else.

Whole relationships these days are representational rather than experiential.

You don’t need surgery to figure out the heart.

I am tired of encountering ossified minds.

I made a paper angel out of my trash. Jon made a square snowflake.

I feel small and dull and flawed.

Writers don’t have secrets; secrets have writers.