Damn straight. I mean, look around you. There are people every day who try to be your friend just so they can make you their proverbial bitch. Oddly enough, I tend to be one of these when in a relationship. :/ That's why I've got to have someone who'll push back as equally as hard as I'll push forward...you know? Atleast you think you know. Every day someone tries to remind me that I am still eligible to be a bitch, and every day I remind them that that's not really true. It's come to the point where even I realise that even if the big old fight hadn't happened between Grant and me, we'd probably end up not being friends because all he wanted was a bitch and I'm not simple enough to really be anybody's. I'm too hard to bitch-itize. I complain too much and stuff. Not that I mind, i mean, that's kind of to my advantage, since that way I'll always come out on top. But it still kind of makes me want to slug him every time he opens his mouth to make some smart aleck comeback made to bring me down even though we're not really talking. It makes me laugh--dear God it makes me laugh--that he thinks that somewhere in his puny little mind he can characterize me as a lesser being than him, as someone below him, as someone completely bitch-itizable. Yeah? Well, fuck you. Hah. In other news, the weather is nice. I'm leaving with mum to go to Alabama tomorrow to show Matthew to three potential buyers. I'll be showing him too, but without my trainer there--however, I can do the hunters on my own. No biggie. After you do the jumpers once or twice, you stop sweating about this stuff even. Enter and trot and circle and canter and inside and outside and inside and outside and circle and trot and walk and exit. Smile at the gate person. Nod to the judge before you begin your round. Sit up straight. Shoulders back. Hollow back over fences. Short release. I am like a robot, a perfect, mechanical robot that does whatever the horse tells her to. I am poetry, and I am just more brown hairs fluttering along his back. I am re-reading my teachers. Sebold and Fitch and Hemingway and Vonnegut. Vonnegut is like raindrops, his words seep into the earth that is me and make me sing with life and vivid understanding. Sebold and Fitch, they are violins and cellos and falling autumnal leaves and cold glaciers--distant beauty and whispering, sensual words like a caress. Hemingway is like a long sleep that dreams of lions on the beach. He is like a sleeping child, to read him is like reading something that will someday burst inside of you and blossom into recognition. He is like deja vu. I love to listen to them. If I could read with my eyes closed I would--so many lovely images transforming themselves into nymphs before my very brain-- it is like a morphine drip, except much much better.