My Connections With the Crew

I'm listening to underground rap and hip-hop, deciding which piece of writing to read tonight, and getting that sick little feeling in my stomach that says "Oh, little girl, you're so not ready for this right now." It won't help that Kyler will be there and Dolan will not. I've grown to rely on Dolan being there, like he's my Poetry Night Friend. I've been trying desperately to organize someone else to accompany me. Lalo is going, but it's his first time. I don't want to read something that might be too heavy for that. I wanted Dobbl to go, but she's very stressed out, and I can understand that. I would ask Tiff to come, but I know she probably can't stay out until eleven on a school night. The hardest thing about this situation is that, if it were up to me, I'd be screaming into that microphone. I'd spout rhymes in rant about how much it hurts. His eyes are stopping me.

I've never been one to follow censorship. I'll swear in class. I'll lift my skirts, drop my tops, because that's who I am. I'm not going to pretend that I'm a good little girl. Who am I? I'm Andi Palmer, and I'm a sick fuck. If it weren't for him, I'd read the truth. But last night, I told him, "go fuck your sister, you poser white gangster ass." He started it. He told me to go buy a vibrator. Right, because I'm so keen on that idea. Andi, who can't bring herself to pull down her pants in bed, would go out and buy a vibrator. And hide it in her bedsheets.

So I think I've found what I'm going to read, but I'll have to put it through rewrites. For the most part, I have to change the end. This ending is far too apologetic to convey my moods tonight, lately. I'm not sorry. I'm anything but. It's strange to look back at this, for lack of a better word, anthology of a break-up that wasn't. I went from regretful to vengeful, to apologetic. From apologetic to desperate, to enraged, to enlightened. I do feel enlightened. More on the topic later.