witch, burning

October 27, 2021

Today is Sylvia Plath’s birthday. One of my favorite poems of hers is called “Witch Burning.” In it she writes, “only the devil can eat the devil out.” Yummy.

I went to the Magician’s house last night. We smoked weed, had sex, ordered pizza and watched “Fight Club.” Then I went home because I was still pretty wired. Constable was in my bed and wanted to talk. I told him my ideal living situation would be to continue living at Laurel Manor and peacefully co-existing.

Oh, Magician gave me back all of my vinyls I left with him. I forgot how nostalgic my collection is: The XX, Fleet Foxes, The Shins, Flaming Lips. It reminds me of being a depressed junior in high school and fooling around with Mr. McGuire.

I think I’ll probably always be a hopeless romantic: emphasis on hopeless. Because I’m always soft of hoping for someone to appear who will ignite feelings of romantic love in me. But it rarely happens, and when it does I’m always disappointed by how small people actually are.

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