My umbrella broke. The one given to me by a sugar daddy at age 18. One of the metal sticks bent in half and so when I tried to open the sticky clear plastic, only half the umbrella popped out to life. But it wasn’t raining, it was drizzling so I walked around my apartment building and dumped my half-umbrella in the recycling. I worried that it might not be fully recyclable, and that I had messed up the entire bin of recycling. And that the world is going to shit partially because of my selfish, impatient actions. But it was all thick plastic and metal so it probably is recyclable, right? Right????

In any event I’ve got to get to work, out in Herter Park, in the middle of nowhere along the Charles River on the Allston side. I’m not getting further from being able to survive in the wild, with this beer garden job. I had my peace sign ring on my left thumb and I was loaded with ketamine, ready for anything. I found myself at the Beachmont train station, propping my notebook on top of my faux leather green backpack, on top of a black plastic garbage can top. The top looked clean enough, after all, the trash goes through the side openings and not through the top. I thought about how creative I felt and I wondered what would happen to me once the ketamine ran out. I still had maybe seven grams, but I was on pace to kill that in another couple weeks. I guess I’ll just buy more then, I shrugged to myself.

I am in constant worry of the randomness of it all. The infiniteness of all the ideas shoes, tattoos, styles, content, internet moods, I get nervous when I have to choose only one thing to think about, when there are so many important, glamorous, cool, insignificant little details that will never see the light of day. Like this guy’s shirt with a Simpson’s hand holding a newspaper with the cover stating, “Old man yells at pizza.”

The complete horror of it all. So many thoughts and signatures and dreams.

Is that why we all wear somewhat similar colored shoes on the train platform? To create a moment of quiet, monotonous solace beneath the utter chaos?

At least I’m not afraid of what people will think of me anymore. As I write feverishly in a diary waiting for the green line. I feel people’s eyes staring down my notebook, trying to figure out who I am and what’s so pressing. Joke’s on you, literally nothing matters I’m just a random girl writing nonsense in a notebook lolz. I don’t remember exactly when I lost my sense of shame or worry of embarrassment, and it will probably at some point poke its ugly head back out at me, but it was kind of just a long slow descent into madness and calmness.

You’ve got to stay calm. like that viral saying, “Stay calm and ____.” Because otherwise the randomness will eat you alive.

There’s no sense in struggling. It’s like one of those Chinese finger traps. The harder you pull, the more stuck you get. As soon as you relax, the moment comes when there’s slack in the rope and you can think clearly.

I walk out of the train tunnel holding my notebook like a designer bag between my grown-out-fake-long nails. God I love summer. The sticky dampness of the drizzle and the heat rising up my calves from the sidewalk and how the sky can’t make up its mind whether to rain, pour or cry.

I passed by Vivant Vintage, the kind of place you have to walk by to really get it. It’s not in any internet list. EDIT: it’s literally on Boston Magazine as “Best Vintage Clothing, in Boston” lmao. So its the type of place that feels so authentically vintage that it couldn’t possibly be on the internet, that’s how vintage it is.

A peace sign on a fence reminded me of a peace sign tattoo I saw in Swanzey.

Something is better than nothing when it comes to art. I want it all and I want it now but I know that is impossible so its gotta be baby steps and baby sips until I can stomach more.

Whatever they did to repress me in my childhood worked, because now I feel fully unrepressed. Thank you religion.

People shake their head if your ramblings are incoherent, unless its beautiful, then they call you an artist and applaud.