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Flapping Seagulls

So here I am wallowing in the stench of my own pulsating ego. This human need for validation scratching at the inside of my skull. All of us writhing in a sea of endless faces, waving our little banners like so many identical seagulls turned glitter covered divas.

I am disgusted by my own obsession with pop culture. Oh please, you're obsessed too. You can name at least three bands you listen to that had top ten hits on the radio, you know you sometimes glance at the magazine covers wondering if that sparkly bitch had to carry her groceries up four flights of stairs that morning and who doesn't know who Kramer is? Even counterculture is mainstream so don't fool yourself into thinking you are anything special. Stripped naked we're all writhing with insecurity and running from it as fast as our soft little muscles can carry us.

I am.

I sit through my day and sort through my lists. In between I remember a childhood as an alien sandwiched in the love-hate of the Eskimos I lived with. I think of my paintings, my poetry, the fact that my parents were indeed right when they called me a genius and absolutely dead-on when they called me a failure. And I think of my people, the ones who love me, and between little prancing demons of greed and self-doubt I feel-

validated.

1:32 p.m. - 2004-04-08
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