By Stefanie DeLuca

Big fucking crack up in the dog food aisle of Jewel. I used to be a dog groomer in a pet store, with a twelve year old's life, a home, a real bedroom and a family all intact (sort of). I wanted to be a vet, and felt that sneaky self-indulgent excitement that one has when she always wins the spelling bee that she WILL be successful, something very special is in store that if one looked closely, one might see the gilded grace of god upon this young girl. Who by chance, also seemed to find it impossible to make racial or other slurs, call people names right back, and compltetely unethical to step on an anthill.

She also like to do the dishes just so she could feel like it MIGHT help mom who is otherwise prone to some serious sadness. How the fuck does one balance that secret sense of a successful future with the frail fear of wrongdoing, the incessant need to do good? Better: how the fuck does one -- It all came crashing down in the last few days, so I left work early and went to bed until I was done sleeping, which never really came.

Been thinking about career possibilities and the serious documentation of my dating life. Been really jealous of the young female author of this fantastic novel that I have been reading. Been awfully overwhelmed with feelings period, I guess. Feeling like I should get a grip -- afraid that any clinician in his or her right mind might stick me on some goddamn pills or force me to quit graduate school. I am feeling like I need to horde my memories, my energy, my feelings, my friends, my families, my nostalgia, my ideas, my motivation, otherwise they might dilute themselves in this sea of personal dialectic and exhaustion. Then I will be the flavored residue of myself.


Past pieces presented by Baja Phats

My Imminent Departure from Chicago by Ben Timberlake
A Guide To Winning at Ms. Pac-Man and, thus, at Life by Secho
From My Diaries by Winston T. Spoojalot


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