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About Geneva

Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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I love how bitter-sweet memory is, like that damn film, Memento. “We all need to forget so we can remember,” yesss, we do, we do! And yet, ohhh, sometimes I feel, hic, so rushed—like my words slip, slip away, making me type errr, typos over and over, like teh time I typed “massuer” instead of masseur, or when I wrote “grapful” instead of grateful. Darn, im mad at my fingers! Slkety, I’m in such a happy, mad, confused mood here, precious friend.

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