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Note that we've played, um, loose with the categories so the first 3 especially, are practically meaningless.


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Reich 4.0


I am Nietzsche

Lou Andreas-Salomé, the hot young woman who rejected NietzscheOk. So this writing about hating has been good for me. This writing about depression. (OMG, I just heard a bang right above me: the actors are moving into the previously empty room right above my bedroom – I’m sure of it. What am I going to do? I feel so invaded. Is it possible that I may make enough money to buy my own freestanding home? One where I don’t have to worry about loud actors who recognize me for the worm I am and treat me as such?)

Ok. So I’m going to try and go with it – writing even when I may not be sooo depressed, in the hopes that it will end the confusion and lostness I feel. The despair. The ennui, the malaise.


What's the difference between a woman and a sad clown?Ah, bittersweet music: reggae, dub reggae. I am lonely. I lie in bed at night listening to my heartbeat. I try to meditate. I try to focus on my breathing.

I try not to be excited that I’m getting up at 6 am to go to a yoga class. I try not to let this keep me up.

But nothing can stop the constant buzzing in my head. The buzzing in my head that is meant to fill my cold, hard little heart. The buzzing that is meant to keep my heart hard and safe: a hard heart cannot be bruised, unless of course, it is clenched so hard it bruises itself. Internal injuries. Trauma of some sort. It’s the fabric of my character. Ha! No wonder “Who am I?” bothered me so much as a teenager and young adult. Who wants to acknowledge that they are sad and lonely – not that they feel sad and lonely, but that they ARE sad and lonely. More than “Janet”. More than “Malcolm”. Ms. Sad & Lonely. (Ms. Lonely & Sad?)