Perhaps when I am a real woman I will understand why you can flip an urinal upside down and call it art. But I think I am still a child and that is why my dislike of Yoko Ono transforms into my dislike of avant garde, the right side of my brain wants to fool others into thinking I have a beautiful mind but the left side knows I am petty bitch and takes a perverse sort of pride in it. I hope all my exes live very sad and miserable lives. I hope everyone who has hurt me gets it back somehow. Art is an urinal upside down, art is something we piss on. Art is a banshee screech cutting through a melody. Art should be something that makes you uncomfortable, leaves the taste of bitterness in your mouth. I am bitter enough as it is, I wish I could break out of writing in the first person, the I is razor sharp, a switchblade that is also a home. I am still a child, perhaps when I am real and a woman, I will write a novel. I don’t think I have learned anything new since I was twelve. Time goes in circles, age is a social construct. The present is all you have, hold it tight between your fingers if you can. Art, should be something that preserves time. Art is what finds you in your longing and makes you beautiful.
