fatally pregnant and it’s only monday

I’m bumpin’ the goose just thinking about Wednesdays. They are the tolling elevators of  buildings for the week, and I’m really good at getting stuck in them. Seriously, I could quit my day job, the buttons don’t fucking work so there I am: livid, staring at the metal doors, electronic clock face, lights and noises to the standard carpet which begin to make me panic. I’d like to think that it won’t always be that way, that most things come to fruition, but I’m really impatient.

I’ve always felt pregnant with that ambition that’s either innate or inculcated in most privileged young women. there’s something oddly destructive about believing that there will always be room to improve, that there’s something you can do.. because there’s the chance that you invariably never will. talk about boys haunted by their fathers, girls grow up knowing they could always disappoint their mothers after their rights have been fought for, make their fathers feel failed, leave their siblings with bad examples, or even worse: succeeding and still feel like they aren’t good enough. it’s enough to give anyone a complex. having to live up to anything, and especially while being fully cognizant of the possibility of failure is quite the terror.

I wonder if other girls feel as I do: the victim of an unbound and incessant nausea, wake up in the middle of the night with such a shake it would make people vomit just to watch. sometimes I catch myself grinding my teeth in an effort not to hurl myself towards the nearest bathroom. I have the ghost of  a festering ambition neatly tucked away somewhere in that gray area  that could be the womb of my spirit and actual anatomy I believe. sorry if that sounds dramatic, but most things intrinsically are once you go about anatomizing them. before you know it, anxieties can develop into some kind of odd child that resembles the endearments of otherwise ghostly abortions. neurosis becomes a part of personality that hinders and accents you the way a heavy coat would. on your shoulders, noticeable, but not outright uncomfortable to most aesthetics. it’s like a damned woody allen joke, only I’d like to think I’m the cuter punch line.


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