"Im just a girl" mindset Vs the Labyrinth

 Twlight- boa

Hello folks,


Today I'm experiencing the psychedelic effects of foreshortened future syndrome. Unfortunately, I think this is an emotion our generation is too aware of and has been made more pressing as we face the Screentime vs Real life pandemic- that basically is shaming people for scrolling too much and creating this fear that we are missing out on such a basic level of life.
I definitely think there are pros and cons to this ideology,
because it is important to receive a good sip of fresh air but I think it's unfair to shame people who primarily create art using technology- It feels hypocritical to have someone who probably spent 3+ hours on a TikTok telling me "I'm wasting my life" by literally watching there TikTok... and it makes the whole balancing life seem impossible.
When being on social moves to the toxic side it is primarily due to the falsification of life.
EX. People have gotten to this point where they only go out with you for a picture and then they plaster all over the media to make it seem like it was a #killertime, yet they barely said one thing to you... idk if I'm just wacky cuz I'm huge on respect but there's nothing that makes a person feel grosser than having a stranger capitalize on your existence for the sole purpose of making their feed look #fetch. (Chloe you just hawt!! and I hope I won't come across as if I am capitalizing on ur beauty)
I just feel like we get this huge fomo because the falsification makes us romanticize having unique experiences while simultaneously keeping us sucked in so have to walk a tight rope of missing out online vs missing out on the rare parts of life.




Idk- I got very off-topic


"You spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking about how you'll escape it one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present."


Today I'm experiencing the psychedelic effects of the foreshortened future syndrome because I recently witnessed something very f*cking disturbing. And I had this moment where I just kept estranging myself from the people around me and filling my head with the top-charting phrase "I'M JUST A GIRL". And it got me thinking about what the phrase actually meant and how it has manipulated the way I think past just being a meme. There was a violent offense that happened and I didn't do anything because I felt powerless. And in that powerless moment, I justified it for just being a f*cking girl pathetic ...
Like I get so sick of consuming shit online that I just start to change my whole thought process behind my belief system and the media is so unfairly catered to people where haft of the people aren't even receiving the same information. IT JUST FEELS IMPOSSIBLE!!! and I just feel so drained from the fuck up shit I see and it's getting to a point where it feels like too much like idk how many more times I have to mutter "Yeah yk its just LIFE!" in response to people just showing basic manners.


A foreshortened Future is "where people feel or believe their life will be cut short without any concrete explanation."


CLOSING NOTES:
I will say I'm in a much better situation and if I was in the same mindset I had, I'd probably lose it for the last time. But it like comforting now to recognize that fucked up shit is happening but there are also like really beautiful things happening. Idk it's comforting that Foreshorten Future is an actual mindset that other people have and the fact it's only a response because you've experienced life so intensely that you fear it being taken away from you at any moment is slightly beautiful.


I hope you all are doing well and taking care of yourself. I think as someone who posts so much on social media even with my small circle of viewers it important to admit to human behaviors and remind people that life isn't always perfect. I think we owe it to the community!


xoxo much l*ve,
katbird02

stop asking questions

 

embarrassment comes in all shapes and all colors,

today mine took form into the shape of brand-new bed sheets

today mine would look nice with a still life of pomegranates, papayas, lemons, and cut-open avocados.

Today I will call it art until I have to call my mother. 

Damn, you, white sheets

Damn, you, women's hood.

Today I woke up pissed, double-fisting American-sized coffee.

Im needing a chemical start.

I truly believe housewives are one of the strongest women, You ever keep you tongue taught for years?  You ever correct yourself daily to the point of protection? were you ever brave enough to become something for the sake of family and the cost of individuality? 

who knows, what they are, or who they are.

 I just know they wouldn't be cursing these damn bed sheets. 

Im gonna order something real cheap, Im gonna wait all night. I'm gonna say it's coming from you. Im gonna act like it's a sin. 

but you died a few years back and this site most likely uses child labor.   

I'm too stubborn to say I already feel bad. 

 

short piece on turning things into horror:

I stood in front of him, a bottled-shaped Skelton topped in golden hair. the apartment walls were bare in old empty photographs. my nails were chipping and scrubbing dirt out of hallway cracks to make this feel more like home. 

Hungry Mother

 In most of my writing, I talk about my mother like a sour taste, you just can't shake. I blamed her for my inability to feel fresh or catered. To be the freshly pressed linens with pose fingernails that smelled like Lana del Reys lyrics in the summertime. I forget more often than not my mother wasn't always placed in a home with stucco walls. She too was born with a suitcase and a DIY self-care attitude. She won't braid my hair and she won't care to learn. 

When reading Pamela Anderson's bio. She wrote something i couldn't seem to just skip by, like the usual "my mother, myself. my father, my mirror" hypnotic good parental bullshit quote. 

she said:

"The best advice my parents gave me

was no advice.

They admitted to knowing nothing

of my world,

my journey

My dreams, passions, and purpose.

They had no way of bailing me out.

They listened,

They worried with me at times,

They loved me the best they could

But it was up to me to find my way through.

When

I understood that,

I was even more free to

create my oven life.

It was a blessing.'

This quote sank to the bottom of me and floated around my gut for days. I lost my voice a long time ago trying to force my parents into understanding, I expanded my vocabulary and catered to my cause with any available literature (music, slam poetry, art... etc), and in the end, I graduated from their homes and was gifted the diploma of "I know nothing of your world". Tho they didn't directly say these straight-arrow words I knew they were the only ones to complete my hunger for acknowledgments and I know now they fed this hunger long before I was capable of recognizing other people's uses of metaphors. 

When I talk about my mother, I always remind the audience of her background. I describe her the way all women who dabble in romanticized ideology would like to be described. She the soft mix between a southern virtue and a European tea party.  But I tend to forget she use to need a suitcase.

My mother wouldn't braid my hair cause she didn't want to learn. if you wanted to feel beautiful you had to chase that train yourself. my mother could teach you how to pin curl you hair with pop cans and sew designer logos on to your pants, but there isn't no way shed teach you anything commercial- she's still learning to smile through ads. 

diffrent takes - an old piece i should have forgotten about :>

"We have the same hands" stuttered out of my mouth and onto the floor. My hands crept around my focal point and I sought him to be the type to kill. He was 11, fragile, hurting, and very alone. He happened to be a boy growing up in a shrinking world. He was made to be the type to kill. Bugs, bats, caterpillars, or my toy dolls. He smashed oranges and bee nests. Crumpled paper planes and loved so hard he couldn't stand the sound of static, placed between him and his father's phone calls. I sought him to be the type to kill. The media made him out to be a real monster.

If my mother would have stepped into my puddle of incompetent metaphors. Shed sweep it up, she was always doing things like that. Every issue, every problem shed shimmy into a dustpan and chucked it straight out the door. Collecting the broken bee wings and melted Polly pockets. I sit there shocked by her inability to step in. But she did what most southern women typically do, and she went south. 

“We have the same blood”, this phrase always seemed to soak itself in every whiskey-ridden syllable, with the southern accents ringing behind. It felt like a long car ride, it felt like when I realized fireflies don't come to my town anymore. I was born improperly, the daughter of a Frat/Narscar/Basketball coke head king of the goddamn South. He was a type of romcom that cheerleaders gagged over. He was my mother's, only love. We use to be cool. My mother made him out to be a real monster. 

If my brother saw the mud pies I make today, I think he'd remember the docks. The moldy wood and when the catfish swarmed our childhood Christmas tree. Tied by its stump. I swear it was plastic, I swear we were church-acquired hicks. True Catholics. I knew that church that boy shot up-Anyways he was 10, my brother was stuck on the diving board across the dock in this giant swampy mass called Lake Norman. This lake was the largest man-made lake located in North Carolina. He wasn't the type to kill, that was the problem. Faced with true danger and impeccable speed he was challenged to outrace a water snake. A vicious, unfaithful, gluttonous beast. He did what most people would do, he sat and cried. 

20 years of hair.

I've decided I don't want this, this glorified depressing romantic life. I stopped doing what was best and stopped looking at the floor. I always hated looking up. Said to be holy but I've seen nothing but defeat. 

I can feel my hair stick to my back, I write a lot more about this- in private of course. 

I can feel my hair fall past my shoulders and the memories feel somewhat grand. Like I've been let into a ritual I finally comprehend. Before, a time like this, id cut all inches off and watch them sept into the floor. I'd decorate myself in some closeted-vintage costume couture. I assumed there was strength in confidence so leather and lethal, to know I was looking at true beauty, to know I could take that thing away. 

to feel my hair lay layered and outgrown upon my back.

to feel it fall off and crack.

In church, they talk about evil and I watch my brother compare women to apples. to temptation, to sin, to the quiet girl who sits upon the boardwalk, between the steples, in the alley, across the street. I trace my hand with my fingers and try to remember that taste. If sin was created because of a bite, mine must have been in the summer, when momma's sunbathing hat blocked my site and my brothers and I ran wild through the orchards, skipping stones and making mud pies. back when the air stuck to ur skin like a good woman's kiss. That must have been it? that must have been back when my hair first grew long enough to lay upon my back. at least before the first major cut.

I can feel my hair sticking to my back and I tried to remind myself women are not apples. 

-cut-

The next time he saw me he laughed at how he could now fit all of it in his hand, how it tangled into mountable shape upon my head. I thought he'd hate it. I thought it would free him from sin. I thought this was a tangible curse. I thought I was the only one lethal to know I still lay underneath these strands. 

I can still feel my hair brushing the back of my neck at this point. 

Outside the gas station, sipping on a supersized American-style pop. I won't tell you what we talked about because that wouldn't be fair. I pushed him off of me n readjusted my socks, shoes, and shorts as I often did when we talked. I pulled the strands ever so carefully out of those fraying jeans and we both kinda just squinted at each other through the blazing sun. 

I carry a lot of old wives' tales in my pocket like a gun. and he must have known this one well. he seemed relieved when I told him I only cut off the bad. He pulled on my hair one last time and I rolled the windows down completely. 

I can feel my hair stick to my back, I write a lot more about this because I don't want this glorified romantic depressing life because I can't keep trimming my hair and cutting my ends in protest to this idea that relation is only due to beauty and beauty is only the creation of deception. There is so much more I seek than misfits and miscalculated conversations about Adam and Eve. There's so much more I want to tell you about my growth when I tell you:

I can feel my hair stick to my back

xoxo 

papercut kneecaps  

may 4th 2022

 

I am my father's daughter. I am the addiction that runs through icy-cold veins. I am a cigarette sitting crooked in a fourteen-year-old girl's mouth. I am the things my mother begged me not to be. 

 Hey guys,

it's me, the girl who can't figure out a name. I decided to cut the bullshit today, ridden my riddles..I wanted to come on here and be real about this site, when I first started I was kinda using it in a more personal way. It was my "give all be all", I wrote with curiosity, shame, and excitement and this incompatible amount of genuine belief in myself. Im not sure that's something I'd agree to say anymore, I was 17 then I'm going to be 20. I claim to be a negative romantic- street-smart comedic psychopath, Im witty as I am dumbfounded. But I am extremely stubborn, I never try at anything I can't do right. I am the best GOD DAMN mediocre Artist, writer, server, barista, and cashier that you ever did meet. And this was the time I truly tried. But now writing has become an old hobby I tuck to bed each night and spoon-feed some haft ass chilly too.

This is to say, that I haven't given up on this site, I consistently write and write and pray for the courage to post, but with those 15 unseen drafts, they've become 15 unseen documents of shame. Im not sure how I gathered so much hate but I did and unfortunately it's something I'm going to have to carry around till I learn how to forgive and realize my own faults. I think a lot.

Im just a girl, that you call a blogger. I have so much talent and admiration for justice, I just don't know how to speak anymore, maybe it's because people became more real, maybe it's because I don't stay, maybe it's cause I'm a blogger, and I'm doing this on purpose. Maybe it's cause I'm losing traction. I'll be leaving soon, it feels shitty to take 10 steps back but it's the only option i have.

I'm going to Sedona today. 

can you guess my name? 

female rage

 If I was female rage madonna would hate me.

My mouth would foam green Drano and my nails would curl with yellowing tips. If I was female rage id collapse to melancholy women with guitars. 

I find myself turning inward into this so-called "female rage". I find myself naked in front of self-appointed righteousness. Being female rage is not the act itself- but rather holding yourself back from the urge to be reckless. In my observation of women, I found that the most collected women hold the most resentment from the need to break. They push the brick wall back until there nails are chipped and bitter. The arms feel weightless in numbness. They crack in fragments, they crave female rage. They redo their lipstick. They find themselves turning inward. 

If the female range was my closet, it would be freshly open nylons. press on nails, melted lipstick and a fraying sweater. my female rage would look like a nicotine packet. Yours may look like rehab, church, or your muse. 

ill attach myself to any version I still get from you. 

compostion blog

I've been caring around a composition book that id likes to call a composition blog. I got the book because I was trying to figure out how to untangle all the thread I push into my pocket. Only to find, I wasn't going crazy, I just turned my mother into a notebook. Processed all the things I wanted to say to her, and ask for her help with. Yet the book never talks back. the book just sits there carrying all of your thoughts and feelings and shows you the ends to all of your loose ties. The book does not wish for you to be better and doesn't take a selfish aspect, or tell you how to live your life. the book just is a book, that you call a blog. 

I made the book the same reason I made the blog, I needed something to figure out everything and if I put enough focus into one thing, maybe everything would just work.

7/5/22: a piece from phoenix

During my time away from myself, I went to the mall. The mall is a beautiful confusing place that can make you fall to your knees in complete submission to all of the glitter and carefully placed threads. But the mall also has the power to make you hate everything about yourself. The beautifully hung emerald green silk dress hangs over your body like moss in the yellow flickering dressing room. Not to say moss is not beautiful- it is. Moss just looks bad because it's on your body, and your body makes silk look rough and patchy. I guess what I'm trying to say is I think I finally understand what people mean when they say they "love me", I think they are calling me a mall. I think they admire me for how I stimulate their needs and entertain their free time. Only to find out I'm just a mall, a building, something to hold an assortment of things. I think everyone's a mall, I just think we carry things differently. I think it's valid for you to hate me. I created a false emotion that only left you with a mirror to look at all your faults

hey maybe if this book wasn't a book but rather a person, maybe they'd be a vintage shop. carrying old memories or whatever is important to you.  The Composition Shop. 

7/7/22: waiting for the water to break

there is no worse version of myself than the summer. When I was much smaller, I spent my time at the lake, I spent my time raising ducks and dogs, and fishing hooks. I spent my time casting dreams and jumping from diving boards, swimming away from the snakes. But as small and faithful as I once was. I prayed for the growing mass above his bed to break, for god to induce a natural phenom- to be a child who was saved. 

7/9/22: The bystanders' drug addiction

the fans are getting too loud. today I broke the bystander's addiction and placed him in my honorable robe. he told me over (I presumed shakey hands that cast banner above my screen). That I- have passed him in my drug intake.  Everything is alright, I made myself crazy, this is something I can claim, there are two types of things. I can't seem to remember it. it became sappy soaked and broken. all poets have fist fought w this type of battle. I wish I could play guitar, id wishes you could sit silently n listen. I wish i didn't need this god damn journal. 

signed, 

                     whatever you need

_______________________________

my credits, no good. I'm, not A drug addict I was just worse in the summer, with nobody to talk to but a book.