I wish my sincerities were some kind of poetry. Then I realize they were some kind of poetry, just not worth publishing and then they become a candid sort of image-less admission.

Also, I feel like my gender and women studies minor is teaching me that nothing is real. My race is constructed, my sex is constructed, my culture is constructed. Sometimes I lie in bed and feel like nothing is real. Not my bed, not my pillows, not my cloud covered comforter that my giant golden retriever ripped a hole in, I wonder why people want to me to quantify my experiences with images, when obviously all those images have been constructed. I wonder if I am a real person. I write stories about boys who have relationships with girls who are not real people living in the real world. I have started writing about myself from the outside, because nothing around me is real enough to describe.