And the summary of all those drunken mornings bare the same essence.
Living cross culturally opens your mind if you let it and only if you want it to.
Those gay 2 week stints where you fall in and out of love so quick you can't even remember them.
But you always remember his name.
Always.
Adapting to something you never thought possible.
And the memories of a different world seem to close to abandon.
The Sarah McDonalds in me comes out after these Chinese Xanax.
And most of the freaky fan letters are from places like Malaysia anyways.
India has tons of people to export anyways.
Like I said in the written Journal,
you feed your desires until they start feeding you.
And what they feed you is like the French Fries in Mcdonalds, or whatever the wrinkled white principal tells me.
You never know what its feeding you besides what you fed it.
When it comes around, it goes around.
Told me my fictitious father.
My fictitious father who's so much cooler and whiter and laid back than anything I had.
My fictitious father who's younger than what I had.
My fictitious mother who I didn't age so rapidly because of my Diabetes.
My fictitious parents who could've lived out their 40's and 50's in peace if it wasn't for me.
My fictitious homeland Blackistan.
This is for you sweet home.
This is for you.