Thank God Putin isn't My Evil Dictator

If you're reading this, know that I'm not angry at you or judging you, I cannot begin to fathom your experience. If it's anything close to being as hard or harder than mine than I certainly have nothing but empathy for you. If it's easier, then the worst I can do is feel some jealousy. I made a definite decision and commitment to ride the razor's edge in this life. So it's like I'm on a track and when it gets easier it clicks into another position and I don't even feel like I have a choice anymore. There's a reason. The easier ways have clauses written ad infinitum. Can I say that? You think, "Oh this looks like a good deal." But the hidden clauses only appear one by one later and by then it's too late. So I want to be at the forefront of the storm.

My idea to film myself painting right around my 32nd birthday and create a dozen paintings within a painting...and my idea to try to find a way to introduce myself in every language (only a handful of languages are even available on easy translation services, especially not the countries we're not allied with...I'm not sure people want me saying hello in certain languages...I know they don't) didn't improve my state of affairs. I don't even want to know what the people who visit my blog think of me. I assume they make a lot of wild conjectures and probably misunderstand me for the most part, which is what I open myself up to by using that platform. I heard an Italian voice in my head saying, "A woman paints like this?!" As if it was a crime. A woman? A woman does this? Yes. I am a woman and I do this. And if you find yourself in the same room as me you might find out why. Sounds kind of like a stupid vague threat. What I wanted to say was that if he found himself in a room with me and I had a tight dress on...that's not what I wanted to say. It got lost in translation. Ok what I wanted to say was. Um. If he found himself in a room with me and he was attracted to me it wouldn't matter as much that a woman paints like that. When I appear to people as a beautiful woman suddenly all sorts of problems vanish. Appear as a beautiful woman? Do I have a choice? Yes. I have a choice. I don't wake up looking like that. I wake up looking like a street urchin. I have short hair and it's naturally very crazy, so when I wake up it's sticking in every conceivable direction. I look like Oliver Twist in the morning.

I'm going through some kind of crisis. There is no tiiiiiiime. I'm definitely running out of time. No one wants to hear about my crisis. They want to hear my vague "poetry" and attempt to dissect and give a meaning to it. Everything I do is being unearthed and picked apart and analyzed and saved and at the same time the original meaning is lost forever, so ha. And I can't trust what I see online. It's being tampered with. I'm sure that if I got on a clean remote device things would look differently unless this is coming from the top. And you can't trust a thing I say and neither can I because my mental health case diffused my word.

It's strange to me that people come and read my work so consistently. And they balk when I mention them here. So secretive. They are reading the words of someone whose word has been refuted. Imagine what would have happened if Putin got ahold of me. My evil dictator left me with some toys to play with. And he loves me on some level I can only imagine and he punishes me for loving him. The rule is that I'm not supposed to let him know I love him. I'm not supposed to go to him. There is a small punishment every time I break these rules. That's how it works. But I do it for as long as I can because the alternative is much worse. If I break away from him and truly fall in love with someone else he'll come and take that man away from me. He hates it that I love him, because it binds and chains him to me. For all I know he wants the "exit" even more than I do. In fact I know he does. No exit.

The reason why you people hate my posts like this is you don't want to know how I feel. You don't want to know what I really think. You want to dream on me and project on me and you want me like junk food to fill a void. You don't come here for the truth. You come here for the mystery and the intrigue and now it's become familiar. And oh how we love that. But what I've learned is it's not about me. When I paint, it's not always me painting, it could be the spirit "Steven" enjoying himself with my hand. When I write it is usually me but only because I'm open to going to that place. There's a malfeasance in me taking credit for what I do. I must do it and then release it. I am merely a vessel here on earth.

There. Now I will go back to writing the poetry I usually write and you can all forget this jolting distasteful unenjoyable foray into my personal thoughts. Trust me (never trust someone who says that) I don't enjoy it either, but I live here. Be thankful you don't. If anyone wants to try my life for a day I'm happy to oblige. If you thought you might like to have it, see if you can last 24 hours.

"Merci. Bonjour. Je m'appelle Anna."


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