:'(

A little bit because of the nerves (midwifing Gorgi), a little bit because my dad continues to be a dick about my literature and i can't understand why, I sit at a very agreeable cafe, drinking really picturesque coffee and eating very sweet cake. And cry. I forget to mention this; without the part I’m crying the previous statement doesn’t really hold much sense. (This is, also, my dad’s comment on my work. All fancy catchphrases and clichés and no sense.)

I am disappointed dad’s being an arsehole, though I am not entirely sad. Sad would make me blind and lonely. I’m quite the opposite, actually. There’s this tremendous irony to my appearance, as (although I try to turn away and not draw attention), some people, the waiter, are looking at me, with a thought clearly drawn on their face: poor fat little woman. Stood up. And she already ordered. Now she’ll have to eat that cake alone..

 If this was a case of fact, then yes, the scene would truly play pathetic. I mean, look at me. Look at my hair. Look at my t-shirt. It would be blatant cruelty to stand-up someone with such oddly thin forearms on an otherwise such a baroque body – yet not at all a shock. It such was the case, I could indeed see the number of tears on a person so needlessly abandoned. But because I have never been stood up (only ever been one date, to be perfectly honest, and even that one was the General’s idea), these glances of sympathetic strangers are chipping away depression each moment at a time. T’was a tiny depression to be sure, no more than a dozen tears, perhaps twenty. But depressions are not to be left unchecked. They tend to inspire corrosion. Half an hour later, the weather has changed completely. I am a completely different person now, plus cake, plus the fine amount of sweet caffeine. However, without the sympathetic glances. I could argue that my father finds disarming faults in every form of art I favor – from movies to landscaping. He is like an old, scorned lover I never took too seriously. A loud old teacher, long obsolete. The poet who never bothered to buy the ink. Well, I bathe in ink. I dye my hair with it. I use it as make-up, as perfume. I trick it into thinking it’s my blood and it can boil brightly crimson. I don’t think my dad envies me my passion for tincture or inspiration I distill from printed pages. I don’t think he would know it, even if he did. He just says things that are stupid sometimes. Things you don’t say to people you are supposed to be tender towards. What does that make him? Evil? Or dumb.