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Hi, my name is May. Please don't sleep with me because I am crazy and I will ruin your life.
And sometimes you just have to say to yourself, "yes" there's mud under my fingernails and I have to write. You can't just expect words and magic to happen, magic is a force of the will and you must make a conscious decision to evoke its power.

I know that genius is insanity, I know that I don't want to be cured, I just want to be able to control myself. I don't want to talk about my problems and have someone teach my how to be normal and accept society as the rule and show me how to follow. I don't want to lie, but I also don't know if it's entirely fair that I should have to announce my lack of sanity at the start of each beginning with another human. I certainly don't want to be crazy, I don't try to be crazy.

Oh great you think I'm cool, sorry about that because I'm fucking nuts. Ya, I know, you can't love that.

I've been thinking about, or I thought about it for almost five minutes yesterday, the connection between scent and memory. I know its power and I know how it will time travel you right outside your mind to places you have actively forgotten, and then you take a two hour cab ride to the inside of a volcano and the comparisons to Yellowstone out of guides mouths never cease, and all you can smell is sulfur rotten eggs and secret farts and you see him in his giant khaki shorts and keens running over boardwalk between geysers at midnight shouting nonsense to scare off the bears. And your scent's memory becomes more than just a time machine but a log, an account, a membrane grainy journal of the places you've been and the things and the people you've been close enough with to smell.
And now it's romantic, now in your head, in your past it can be a thing between the two of you; even though at the time and the truth Jason was there and you have no idea how he smells.

I am haunted, but only by ghosts I love.


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