Nah it’s okay, don’t bother. I’m just bored again.

Trash everywhere. The air so polluted my throat is getting steadily scratchier. Stopped every five minutes for a photo request, money, or chapati, or chocolate, if they’re kids. I haven’t been looked at so much ever, either. My thumb cuticles are pretty fucked up.

I’ve been digging nails into them when I am trying not to stare back, because my dad told me once that if a woman looks at a man when she’s with another man, she’s a slut, and for some reason I’m afraid of any of these men thinking I’m a slut. For the record, I don’t believe what my dad says, obviously everyone is looking at everyone and it has little to no bearing on their sex life, but if men are thinking I’m a slut if I look at them, I guess I’d rather not look at them. I’m not very liberated, apparently. Plus, for some reason, getting stared at like this always makes me anxious, like I’m about to be toppled over or something. I get stage freight about living in public, so I give myself a long sharp jab, and start picking at my dry scar tissue, to keep myself from getting too into my mind and tripping over a small pebble or something.

I find it kind of confusing that I want my walk to be perfect when I’m passing men who are staring at me. I don’t actually care to be looked at when I’m walking around, I’m really hoping to be so inconspicuous, I can dance and spin, and stare up at the trees without anyone seeing me at all, like I’m a ghost living in my own world. So like why am I trying to please people who are ruining the little dreamland I’m trying to enter? Im still trying to make up a game, a dreamworld I can enter with myself, so I can have fun too, and I don’t exist just for their pleasure. It’s like some rebellion of my subjectivity. Instead of being in a fairy land, I’m Carla Bruni and I have to walk with just the right swing in my hips or I’m never booking another job again.

.., I think I’m tired now.

Ciao ciao

Etc etc

Ivy