she sat alone; men are formulas with no answer, with no
reason, and she can lay things out nicely in her head, but
hit /run program/ and
it is errorerrorerrorerror. they are laughing at
her; they are laughing at her when she goes into
the room, when she goes to the front of the room, to smile and
say: I am not
who I was, even three months ago. I am so much better, I am not
self-destructive anymore. Someone asks
a question, and she starts to code the pieces together inside
her 120 IQ (which is okay smart
but not good enough not good enough not good enough), so she
can answer her audience; but
all of a sudden
she can only think, how many calories are on me, today? 300, plus
200, plus 100
plus 450
plus 220
plus 100
and then the 70 I drank from the pineapple kombucha
in the glass can. And so the audience is just staring
at her, as she loses count
and has to start
again.
the last pavilion 