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Dasha & the fruits of the spirit (1)


Dasha.


Yeah, my name is Dasha and I do wonder what was in my mother’s head when she called me that.


WTF.


On the human social and cultural scale I am not average but not exceptional either. I am a dot somewhere in between those eternals Xs and Ys. I am the dot under the question mark, that’s what I am.

I hate pink clothes, wet socks and Chinese open, no door toiles. Go look them up on the internet. You’ll see.


So you wonder what this writing is all about? I do too. I was told that writing is a way to express myself, to “ know thyself”. I don’t want to know myself. I need to sleep. I badly need to sleep. But I did not say this out loud. Thank nonGod I can still recognize real and fictional thoughts. I hope so at least.


My brain has been boiling for months and months. It brings up things I thought I was over and done with.


The mother, the mother comes up a lot. I mean WFT does she want now?


Can’t she just leave me alone to live this bare life she gave me without even asking if I wanted to be here? She didn’t wonder, didn’t think, didn’t ask herself- can I bring this baby into this world and make it a good experience? No, of course not. What the hell! She is an old lady now, shouldn't she be doing stuff that old ladies do? I mean, why does she want to be my girlfriend, go dancing and smoking together, share clothes and secrets? She should be the mom and me the daughter, not the fucking way around.


Anyway, I need to leave now, this is good enough for a first journal entry. I never thought that I would be writing my thoughts down like this. They are so bare and so open and fragile but here I am! I need to sleep soon. I need to find a way out of this house. I need to be my own boss, not this crazy 45 years old teenaged woman who is pretending to be a mom.

She is wearing pink skirts to go shopping for bread.


You see what I mean?


I can hear the mother downstairs. She is coming over here. It’s like she needs to feed off of me just to stay alive to the next cigarette puff. She needs to breathe my life in and feed herself.


What a wreck.






-to be continued-


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