#will probably delete

y'all. come closer. listen to this. I have received another email from my husband, explaining that he cheated on me because he is transgender and he cheated on me with a transgender person because this transgender woman has a penis and breasts, which is what he has needed in a partner all along because he's bisexual (((whaaaaaaaattttttt are you even talking about)))), and I'd never understand his trans identity the way this person did anyway because I'm not a part of his community, which is what they bonded over in secret for a year, and he's glad I miscarried because he wouldn't have been able to explore his trans identity if we had a child and I am just...I mean I am beyond exhausted. I am fucking beyond appalled by his treatment of me and this behavior and the fucking things he's said to me and I genuinely don't think I can keep dealing with this for three years and at this point what are we even doing he (they?? unclear?? he never said? And referred to himself as a man so bruh idek) are just flinging shit at the walls and seeing what sticks and trying to hurt me for sport and it's fun to make crashout jokes and stuff but I'm literally at the end of my capacity to deal with this fucking wretched waste material of an adult human being who hardly earns the title. he's a faceless cardboard cutout--human shaped but entirely without humanity

Discount Cassandra

I can feel your desperation for more information all the way from my location. Pi, who the hell is Discount Cassandra?? you shriek, rending your clothes to shreds and reaching through time and space to shake me to and fro. (I may be tipsy)

Anyway. Let me tell you all about Discount Cassandra (aka Disco Can)

So. The reason I got so fixated on poetry is because years ago a person in the arts scene in [place] got extremely gate-keepy about it, and told me (first time meeting, mind you) that it'd be 'basically impossible' for ESL speakers at my level (at the time) to simply 'get into poetry'. It wasn't something I could simply decide to do. (WRONG. YOU CAN.) I was then treated to their never-ending list of approvals for grants and residencies, and a whole lot of poetry jargon I did not understand.

Some time later, they actively blocked an application I sent in for something.

And some time after that, I ran into them at an exhibition where they proceeded to ensure me, that I couldn't just...decide on a whim that I wanted to show my photography in that gallery. Look. This one, I do understand. I suggested it as a joke. a sujjestion. I had no camera and less than no desire to actually follow through until Disco Can declared that I Disco Couldn't. It was in that moment that photography became For Me, kicking off a journey that began in that gallery...

...and ended in that gallery, standing next to my photography and my good friend Disco C, who was probably (hopefully) disco seething.

Over the past few years, Disco Can and I have run into each other at events and they're always very quick to make sure that I know that my declarations of intent are altogether preposterous. Which prompts a new labour of spite for me to throw myself into.

I can't wait to run into them again. Talk down to me, daddy. In my heart of hearts, what I want to do is level an accusatory finger at em and shriek: Horribly gate-kept me from learning what that jargon means and now look. My syllables. On the syllabus. But I'll be wide-eyed and gracious and lovely. Because of my values. (That it so happens to be the most infuriating thing I could possibly do is a happy coincidence, prommy). What shall I put my mind to next? Our rotten symbiosis must continue.

Revenge is a dish best served in 1 hour of poetry a day for years (and/or one photo at a time).