Bio

Call me Dorothea [it's one of my many names]. I have been kicked out of every high school I have ever attended... sometimes voluntarily [getmethefuckawayfromthosepreps], sometimes absurdly unfairly. Somehow made it into college, & incidentally attended Cambridge last summer. My IQ is in the genius range, but what the fuck is an IQ but a westernized capitalist system of quantification, standardization, & denigration of human perception, each of which holds a microcosmic universe unto itself. I got dem ol' kosmic blues again, mama, when it comes to playing slide, or blues harp, or piano; music infests my bones; & someday, you'll see my name in lights. Music calls to me... and it follows that one reckless, buckwild, rock star summer in my youth I took 50 hits of LSD [& tripped & blacked out for months on end, motherfucker; come to consciousness with no memory of where you were or for hong long or why, fight club style]. Have been diagnosed a beautifully large amount of disorders, including the oh-so famous & glamourous bipolar disorder among others. & Of course, it's all fucking bullshit -- just another one of those dumbass American trends. Stabilization is not my calling... Instability is a forte, but not a well-recognised or appreciated one... I narrowly lived through my turbulent, risen-hell, fucked up childhood. However, I am related to the Reverend Horton Heat, which could damn near compensate for the apocalypse. Ran away from home; plan on becoming an expatriate, already have been a few times. Wanderluster. I am self-destructive, self-constructive, self-loathing, self-righteous, repetitive, cynical, idealistic, repetitive, misanthropic, self-conscious, self-unconscious, agnostic, pantheistic, hypocritical, contradictory, disparate, dissociative, restless, tumultuous, brilliant [what?], absurd, & fucking ... just a girl. Too many people in too many places, I'm schismed.

megalomania is sexy

[addressed to a nameless no one}

I said, “I feel invincible. Do you?” You said yeah.
...And I faltered.
Absolute megalomania looked good on you.
Usually the joy is impenetrable, dangerously slaphappy and naïve, and completely erroneous. But such is the paradox of everything I encounter—as soon as I assert its definiteness, a jolt of knowing opposition erupts. Destined to falter.
Troubling, really.

I suppose it’s just some youthful high—and it’s strong as fuck, cause it’s lasted for twenty-two years and still going strong. Giddy with life, in denial about unconcerned with unwilling to process death. Rationally, yes, of course I’m going to die. I’ve been told. But basically, aside from those morbidly obsessed poets and cancer patients and the odd wise-beyond-your-years prodigy, youth are invincible against not feeling invincible.
Ergo, delusional fools. But resilient-ass motherfuckers.

And then it crumbled, for a moment. I don’t think for me. I think it was for you. I could feel all the precious vulnerability of your naked pride, your triumphant delusion; your mortality in stark contrast to your words of might. My throat burned [threatening the onslaught of tears], vice grip in my chest, uncontrollable buckling of my knees. You will dissipate, disappear, descend to the dark of the cosmos. And I feel that, so much more than for myself; after all, when I'm dead and gone, I won't be there to miss me. That, and I love you more than myself.
And then the slaphappy, lovesick, ever-persistent euphoria took hold... ever faithful, on cue.
[Destined to falter.]

Throughout my turbulent, risen-hell, fucked up childhood, I was invincible. Against repeated, methodical, almost mechanical near death experiences; in fact, furthered by triumph over these experiences. I retreated into the mind, with the profound and awesome for my comfort. Death-defiance because the cosmos were on my side. Then daydream and wonder made way for sex drive, though pain still lingered.

And sex drive doesn’t just ignore, it literally attempts to counter death. Someone will live if I don’t—and they’ll be like me dammit[!] and someone I love even more than me[!] And it governs everything, from your soul mate to ads on TV [pin-up girls?] to the way you curl your toes. But yeah, yeah, yeah we’ve all heard that, well-familiar now… if not at least by experience.

But then even that goes away. Whether the attraction stops for you or in you. And then you’re left facing an old demon from the back of your mind, only friend, alone.  A sad knowledge that you've always had, but somehow only just now realized.
And I guess then you stop feeling invincible?
I don’t want to shake it off, but I don’t like being so profoundly wrong. Or so aware that I'm not really aware.

There's no reason to fight it.
Megalomania keeps you sane.