Exsanguinate

I've been thinking about Topanga Canyon, it keeps popping up in my thoughts. Topanga Canyon is the only place in Southern California that I didn't hate. I loved the curvy roads, the live oaks and the creative expressions of hippy that would pop up in the least expected places. I haven't thought about Topanga Canyon in fifteen years. Still, you can spit at Malibu from there, and everything gross about it. In my imaginary Topanga, the place is alone, NOT near Malibu, not near Santa Monica, and definitely NOT near Beverly Hills. My father says that places like Topanga Canyon can only exist on the tit of places like Malibu, on the money of others. He was talking about Woodstock, NY at the time, existing only because it is near NYC. "We can be FREEEEEE because my dad is an oral surgeon....". 

One thing I can say about Rednecktopia, it is guileless. I don't worry about what people will think of me, what I'm wearing, what kind of bag I have. I sometimes forget that that sort of world even exists. Here, no one is playing a character. No one has anything to prove. No one is running away from a life somewhere else...other than me! LOL! If I left here, I know I would miss the honesty of the people, even if I complain about it. Bob has that honesty. He can't even conceptualize fakery. It is part of the Pennsylvania Dutch culture, from what I can tell. It can be naive on one side, but it can be incredibly trustworthy on the other. 

Nevie just came in with her new boyfriend. She and I were wearing damn near the same hair and damn near the same outfit. Weird. I have created a clone. I'm supposed to hate the boyfriend, right? but he seems just adorable. ADORABLE! I hope my opinion stays the same. 

I was in the ER yesterday because my period was trying to bleed me out. While I was at work, an excellent opportunity to practice humiliation. This is another spiritual gift of Hashimoto's disease. They gave me an ultrasound (inside and out), they took five vials of blood (to which I exclaim,"WHAT THE FUCK! I'M HERE BECAUSE I HAVE NO BLOOD!"), looked in my hoohoo for weirdness, and have no idea why I am exsanguinated. The word processor does not think that exsanguinated is a word, but I know that it is. Fuck off, word processor. I know words. They will tell me to go to the gyno, who will tell me to go on birth control which I don't want to do because I kinda want a baby, and there we will have reached a stalemate. 

There is all of my personal business. Discuss with your partner and write a three paragraph response. 

I am embarrassed to say I want a baby. There it is. 

Every time I blog I feel like I am stealing from the time I should be making profitable art. I need to paint. I need to paint. I need to paint. I need to paint. 

When I paint stuff, people like it and buy it. Then I have money and I can buy things. The embarrassment of my life is that I have not made "enough" money.  I think I was supposed to be a monk or something, and not worry about it. 

I feel like Frida Kahlo is my patron saint. She was in pain. She was wronged. She thought for herself. My suffering is nothing compared to hers, but she would fully understand, wouldn't she?

love and light,

your friend,

hil