We will find our way home

It's not that I don't like this country
I just hate everything about it
the embedded, default lifestyle
8 hour, carb sugar and beer days
basketball, mail and laundry
Shopping in bulk, and fucking to find love

All this bleach hurts my hands, and my skin misses the aire and sun
Fast paced and mean for no reason
I shouldn't have to give myself a pep talk everytime I leave my house

I want a nature walk
a simple meal with vegetables
a boy to ask me on a date
and a thought out glass of wine
I want a step and breath, and pieces
pieces of art, theatre, music
I want language and culture, and weekend trips

and sun and sun and sun and sun
I won't care if I get wrinkles, not if I've earned each one of them.

get me the fuck out of this country.

I did not realize until after I posted these videos, why I did.  They have a curious continuity about them.  An out of context beauty, a weird sound/picture disagreement and a free license to flail and be me weird and out of context.
I've loved spending so much time with myself.  I've become weirder- truer to form.  Alone time is germinating a seed of flair for when sociality attempts to dull your edge.  In the spring I bloom, arms in the aire, hair where it be, lipstick on my teeth, clothing or not- healthy.  Healthy and naked.  Alone and content. visualize and manifest.
I don't want to be an old lady with deeply embedded bra strap shoulders.  You know those ones?  Once delicate, easy shoulders, were strapped for so many years that the bone gave way to an indent.  I don't want that
If I died tomorrow I'd wish I were listening to good music,