FRAGMENTS OF A TEXTUAL BODY

I was just thinking about what DR. Rigby, my personal essay prof at WKU, said about personal writing (poems or essays; it's actually a place for incredible things to be revealed, which you'd think would tell the truth about something. However, no matter how graphically precise the details are, there is always something left out or not said, and the real story is in between the lines. Such is true in my poetry. That's why i kep going back to the same subjects over and over. And sometimes I repeat the same stories oer and over because something about them bothers me, and I tell them, and other people understand them, but that's because I tell it in a way that makes sense, because I suppress some of the details, or I recreate them to protect the innocent or guilty. Even in this journal when I do try to be as accurate as I can be, I emphasize some things more than others. Truly I don't know what, if anything, is important or worth mentioning or not, and in trying to create an impression of myself, I have no clue as to how the fragments I type and juxtapose against other fragmetns will be put together into soemthing concrete in yourt minds. And am I only actual as the real self I am perceived to be in each different person's mind? IS there a right or wrong way to understand what I do? If my self is subject to interpretation even to me, then when we say we're finding outselves, don't we mean we are trying out different fictions of a selfhood we can wear and act within? to find a comfortable role you can play every time you walk out of the house, and a rolse you can decorate your house for? And dress your body for?

I turned down a guy this morning who called and asked me out. (no names to protect the rejected). I told him I'm emotionally unavailable, and I said he's a smart guy who deeserves all of a girl, and I can only give him shard of me, because I'm a mirror shattered and scattered right now. Then he had the audacity to push me, and say it didn't matter. Fuck him not caring if I feel ready to date or not. Fuck him. Stupid penis just looking for a vagina he can park it in and talk to. What I said was that if he only got a shard, he'd get cut, and when the peices are glued back together he'd be scarred and empty handed. I then reminded him he was talking with a poet. poetess. And this is the word, men reading this posting. If the girl says no, trust that she meant it. It's not fun saying no, and you can bet it's les fun to have to say no again and explain yourself AGAIN, but even worse is to say "well, all right." And be resigned to one date with the persistent guy you never wanted to date when you have to pretend it;'s a wonderful evening and then tell him you don't want him to call when it's over. He got wehat he wanted. An evening. Then I can have what I want. A little fucking time to myself so i can be me. And perhaps I wouldn't feel this way if for instance he had not spent time on the phone telling me things I already know (know more about than he does)and when I let him know, this didn't encourage him to finish his story, or to let me talk about the subject (performance theory). Instead he kept talking to hear himself and to be heard, which people do, and if I cared deeply for him, I'd have put up with it, but my mind must be respected.