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i haven't written in a while. more appropriately, i haven't finished anything i've written. i feel like a shit writer. i have so many things to write about that when i sit down and start my mind races too quickly and i get so tired of typing.
i've decided not to tell anyone anything anymore. because after that, it just all goes to shit.
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i lit candles and put on some music and began cleaning the house. in a moment of sweeping the stairs, i paused, and remembered being younger and walking into a new room to find my mother sweeping some spot that i would've never thought dirty enough to justify sweeping. She would be there in the clothes that she had worn to work that day, sweeping. For some reason I always thought you were supposed to do house cleaning in certain clothes; t-shirts with paint on them and jeans with holes. These days my imagination doesn't have to stretch far to encompass the thought of moving furniture and sweeping in a liz claiborne pantsuit with a matching blazer.
When I find myself in a situation that calls for me to put on the act of a mature and strong independent woman, i can feel the tone and inflection of my voice mimicing what i used to here in hers. And I've always been sort of proud to have a such a strong mother. I've always sort of liked that I saw that in her.
The image of her sweeping began to grow into a sequence of events as i stood there methodically moving the broom across the hardwood floor. When I found her, i would always whisper..."mom?" Everything with my mother was indirectly a question, because you never knew how your presence would be answered. Was it a good day or a bad one?
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ps. my posts make me sound like a holier-than-thou pompous jackass sometimes. if you could hear me speak them in the context of a conversation, you'd see that they really are not that way. i'm struggling to find ways to express genuinness online.
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Tuesday, April 29th, 2003
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it's funny what public journals can do to us. they're like horoscopes. everything we read in someone else's journal we take and find ways that it applies to us so that we can convince ourselves that they are so hung up on us. we are so egocentric. perhaps that piece about wanting to get down and dirty and make sweet love wasn't about you, but rather about some random person they saw on the street corner. perhaps that post about how you're their most prized possession, their dearest friend, perhaps that was about your neighbor, not you.
step outside of your personal box. take a look around. god, the things you can see when you do that...
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i've got to let the anger go, crush it beneath a magnitude of zest for the forwardly propelled path of my life. my hemingway calls me mangnamonious. what a beautiful word...mag-na-mon-i-ous. i whisper it, paying careful attention to the way my mouth segues into each new phoneme, going through the whole range of motions that one can make with one's mouth. i'll let it be our long distance blow job. everytime i say the word, i'll imagine the way my tongue would flicker were he only here.
but i've gotta get out of these dreams that lack a tactile reality.
they keep me sane for now. they keep me beautiful and not angry. they keep me not angry. that's really all i need to say, because i don't need anyone else to keep me beautiful anymore. but the anger. the anger just won't fade. a lividity lying dormant just behind the calm blue of my eyes. like some sort of siren to draw you in. i warn you now, don't get lost in my eyes, or you'll be forever missing to friends and family.
ignore me now. because i can feel it fading slowly, even while i speak such threats. i can feel it come up to my chest and slowly seep out, right above my breasts. out with mozart's pangs of hell...Der holle ra che kochtin meinem herzen! tod und verzweiflung! as i try to breathe in the symphonious sound of puccini's turandot...piu and two and one and two and prima di questa aurora, di questa...arurora one and two...
i'll breathe you out, and breathe myself in. it's becoming the most beautiful scent in the world.
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sing softly into my ear your dirty secrets, sweet dove. tell me of all the things that i am to you and i'll dress up all the things that you are to me.
i'll tell you it's because of you that tonight i can peacefully return to the mistress who wears red honestly, but covers it in a down of white. because of you i can whisper my bedtime thoughts into the feathers of my pillow before 5am. because of you that i can turn out the lights and not be afraid that the world will disappear.
play well all your cards but please, i beg, do not give me hope. for hope is an ugly, vile, whorish bitch that dances menancingly through my veins. give me dreams and fantasy, but don't dare utter any thought of reality. i will not look for your yellow ribbons 'round the old oak tree.
i'll think of you forever now when i burn candles in my room. i'll place emphasis only on what you represent, and never on what you could be; because it's unfair to my heart, and i can't cheat myself any longer.
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Wednesday, April 16th, 2003
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i hate to break it to the soft and gentle of the world, but everyone's gotta be ruined by someone. it breaks you in. sex and love. there are two cherries to pop there.
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"i want a woman who can be a lady and be human all at the same time", says the all-american rugby player who just so happens to have a cigarette in one hand and always a book in the other. the love child of a "writer boy" and a "man's man".
Tonight there has been nothing. Various people got various sorts of blank stares and various silent pauses before i could answer various simple questions. pills or tiredness or just not quite knowing how to engage in simple expression of thought.
even this. i should not even be attempting this. maybe i just wanted an excuse to write about or think about the boy some more. because tonight he was about the only thing to spark any sort of thought that carried any sort of emotion with it. maybe i just thought i could live vicariously through a 4 hour old conversation.
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it's hot in here...it's hot and it's monotonous...sunday in the park with...
i love sondheim.
but really, my room is always so hot. but not hot enough to cause sweat. so it's just...stuffy.
so i went to the library to check out books. seven glorious floors of books. i just walked up and down the aisles running my fingers across the spine of each one. the complete works of, the history of, the story of...entire shelves for just one author. how jealous i was. and i couldn't decide between them all, so i left with 3 books. 3 books too many, because i don't have the time...despair and lolita and blind date. and of course, i'll start with the one i didn't set out to get in the first place. despair. it's not supposed to be as good as lolita, but the first paragraph drugged me and dragged me by my hair into its darkened pages.
the bearer of drugs comes to save me from another night in my mistress of a bed. tonight there will be productivity.
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Saturday, April 12th, 2003
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author's note: firstly: this is nowhere near finished. I can't even work on it anymore because, as victor showed me, i started out with a decent plot, but then it just started to read too much like a diary.
things i need the most help with: dialogue, segues, and um...well...story. I don't know how to write stories. I know how to write thoughts. so any ideas you could throw my way on how to fit more of a plot in there would be great.
On The Verge of Terra Incognita
It wasn't as cold and metallic as I had imagined it being. For some reason you watch all these HBO Lifestyles: Family in Crisis movies, and you would think that an abortion clinic should be this cold and dreary place where everything is made out of metal, just for added effect. I imagined these long hallways with perfectly shinned, speckled tile so that you could hear the up-click and down-click of the doctor's shoes; shoes that would have heels, not because it's realistic or efficient, but just because I think that the sound of clicking heels down a long hallway should be present in the atmosphere, again, for emphasis.
And for some reason, I thought that it would be considerate of me to cry. Because that's what you're supposed to do in a clinic of that sort, right? Cry for the murder of the precious life living inside of your body! right? ...at least that's what all the people that I imagined to be outside would be saying; protestors penciling in time between the baby seals and the cows, along with their trendy signs made of a cloth that was woven in some South American sweat shop, no doubt. Maybe if they scream loud enough, no one will notice the hypocrisy.
I'd probably think about how neat it was that the clinic had installed sound proof glass in the sliding door. Open: Yell, yell, murder, babies, blood, yell, and then close: and it’s just music. They'd be playing music in this half-assed attempt to make you feel like you were somewhere completely normal and social and non-intimidating. Probably the same kinds of elevator type muzack they play in the dentist office or while you're holding on the phone for the next available representative. Every once in a while they'd slip in an old easy listening song; just to bring you back to the foreground of your thoughts, or maybe to initiate whispered conversations of pretend normalcy between groups.
Person pretending to be normal #1 would start, "I haven't heard this song in a long time", to which person pretending to be normal #2 would respond, "Yeah. I remember they played it at our prom, and...(include normal sounding clichéd story bit here)..." This of course would be followed by that eerie silence that will inevitably occur when both parties remember that this isn't a stop on the A line or a shopping line at some trendy clothing store a week before Christmas.
Then there's the glance. And he thinks that she's buying herself a rocket ride out of this gutter. Maybe he pretends to know. Maybe though, he's just really trying to figure out how he's going to handle her. Maybe he doesn't want to handle her anymore after this, maybe when he put his black leather couch in storage so that she could put that ugly fucking hard piece of shit purple thing covered with a gaudy floral print right in the middle of the living room, maybe that was it. Maybe that conventional compromise of posessional condensation didn't fucking mean that he was obligated to hold her hand through this shit. Maybe if the bitch hadn't been so inconsiderate back then, maybe if she'd been sweet and naive and all the things she was before, maybe then he wouldn't be having these horrible thoughts of what karma can really mean. But no man's really that insensitive, genuinely, or he wouldn't be there to begin with. But still.
Sometimes thoughts are the bastard child of honesty and justification.
But she knows that after this that it'll be more than the dead fetus in a jelly jar. And she wants to think that just being with him will make it better. But she's seen the same movies too and, for reasons that she can't know yet, it seems that these are the kind of things that always get thrown back in someone's face. Maybe if she'd just been kinder to him before she found out. Maybe if she'd let him keep that couch from the kinky-sticky-sex-on-leather-furniture days, she wouldn't feel so bad about putting him in this position. Fuck that. That bastard put her in this position! Or at least the position that caused this in the first place...well, positions. "If it didn't have to be every fucking night the chances would've been slimmer", she rationalizes. She only did it because she wanted to make him happy, make him feel good. What a selfish bastard. After thought, maybe she comes to the conclusion that's unfair to say because "He's here with me now", she thinks. "We're here together for now." And it'll be over soon. And then she'll find out why all those HBO movies ended the way they did. But for now, she can love him a little while longer.
So along with the music and the clicking of heels and the cold metal, these are the type of people you might expect to find in such a place.
But it's not like that at all. Of course, that might be because technically, it's not really an abortion clinic. It's just a Planned Parenthood place. And I suppose it's in the best interest of the organization not to scare away all the slutty and responsible girls that just want cheap birth control pills.
And why do they have to stock the place from top to bottom with pamphlets on all the possible STD's you might have and how easy it is to get them? Maybe it's a ploy to make money. Because I came in just to ask a question or two and I end up spending $90 for 5 tests, blood work, piss in a cup, hands shoved up my pussy (in a very non-enjoyable way), and a walk through of how to properly use every form of contraceptive on the market, or off the market--either way, just in case.
I should back up. I should start over. I shouldn't act as if I had no idea what the place looked like. I knew perfectly well. But sometimes we just like to pretend that old routines, once left dormant for a while, can be brought back to life and, therefor, be new all over again. It wasn't the same place I'd gone last month, or even the month before that. I've got to switch it up a bit; I firmly believe that it is in no one's best interest to be able to paste names onto faces of framed children on the desk of a person who is legally required to use gloves just to finger you. But same type of deal. And yet I still get sucked into the whole piss in a cup and sexxx-ed routine? But please, do not color me stupid. Color me paranoid, or obsessive, or anything other than stupid. Even one of those slutty or responsible girls if you must sink to such petty lows to make yourself feel better. Oh, wait. There goes another epiphany of hypocrisy that I will continue to ignore.
So it's become my once a month routine. And really, what's so wrong with a routine here and there? It helps to remind you that when the shit hits the fan, when old friends leave and new lovers saddle up, that some things never change. It's comfort.
No. It's fear and paranoia. Maybe comfort in the fear and paranoia. Or maybe sometimes we just to want to feel an emotional high so badly that we don't care if it's love or hate or fear. They're all the same things really, just routed through different parts of your brain.
The truth of the routine is this: every time I have sex, I feel pregnant. The orgasm is two-fold. The rush of intense erotic pleasure, the sudden stabbing fear of all the things that could've gone wrong; of all the shadows cast on safety during the moments of adolescent horniness. What if there were holes? What if Mr. You're-Only-My-Third over here didn't put the condom on right? After Anthony, I learned that you always put the condom on for him; otherwise you end up dry on the inside while his lubricated dick makes him wonder if he's already reached his moment of glory. What if tiny drops of his not-worthy-of-busting-through-your-egg-of-magnificence pre-cum accidentally (because no part of his being has enough intelligence to fill even the smallest of pipettes) took the right turn through the folds of your vagina? These are the questions. These are the reasons I want him out of my bed--no time to tie up his shoes--and on his way, because I have to get up early in the morning. The clinic gets busy after eleven.
You'd think I'd just learn to close my legs if I was going to be so anal about it. Or anal. I suppose that's always option. Not enjoyable though. It's kind of like giving birth, only instead of pushing the baby out; some asshole is trying to shove back in.
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Soon I bleed through my panties, and sudden moments of happiness give way to nothing yet again. Relaxation is not my preferred medium of feeling. “Give me life!” I scream. Give me anger, and pain, and heartache, and love! Give me something that is anything more than nothing. At least.
But we can't just sit around waiting for something that is not nothing; we do have lives to carry on, much unlike your aristocratic character in any Hemingway or Nabokov novel. The characters in this life don't get to sit back and enjoy the long thoughts on how they are oh-so-rich yet so unfulfilled because of some loneliness that comes with money. Trade me lives, sir Hermann, I'll buy myself a fucking emotion.
I've spent enough time this morning screaming pretentious requests for emotional highs, and the time is ticking, so then to work it is. Over and over, the same day again, and I try to forget myself by finding familiarity in the ever-changing day. It's possible to get bored with difference everyday, because even predictable change is still predictable.
Where I work, we have shelves filled with overly-priced and useless decorative items, from candles to picture frames. I take notice of the hyperactive blonde and her more subdued counterpart as they sigh over how cute the handmade picture frames are. The blonde is no doubt imagining what a picture of her and her boyfriend would look like in it. The brunette is trying to keep down the salad the two just ate. It's only after I hear the blonde's squeals of joy that i notice the item she's choosen to purchase: the most hideous frog candle that we sell. She brings it down to the register.
Conversation is initiated by the aforementioned blonde, I politely return her advances, and the brunette stands over to the side as if she's embarrassed to even know such a vapid human being. Poor girl, I feel her pain.
"Oh my god, I can NOT believe that you guys have this! I just LOVE frogs! Aren’t they the CUTEST things EVER!?"
"Yeah, a lot of people seem to like them", I reply.
"Frogs are, like, my thing. You know how everyone has a thing, something they love collecting. Well mine's frogs."
There is a brief moment of silence in which I get too comfortable in the idea of the conversation being over before she asks, "What’s your thing?"
"Excuse me?"
"You know, your thing. What do you collect?"
As I searched my memory for everything that my friends collected, the only thing I could come up with was, "Coke...I collect Coke products."
Really though, I have no thing. But having no thing to collect is not worth mentioning to this girl who could not and apparently would not grasp the notion of not living a life in which collected things and hobbies are the pinnacle of existence. Sometimes it's easier for all parties involved just to play along. She pays, they leave, I am alone in the shop.
I read. I drink coffee. I call my mother, my weekly engagement of reaffirming that I am still alive, that I am not pregnant, and that I have not failed out of school. I neglect to mention my brand new credit card.
In fact, I do everything I can to not have to think about the lack of collectable things in my life.
Jesse and I had a conversation about collectable things once, it went as such:
Him: It's not my fault you'd rather collect boys than stamps...at least stamps don't hurt you.
Me: piss off.
That was the extent of it. Was it enjoyable?
Fuck them. I collect plenty of things. I collect blissful phrases of words and delectable bits of music. But the point, I suppose, was that I had no thing that I could collect that could say with one idea all that I was. I’m sure that's not why the blonde collected frogs. I’m sure that's not why my friend collected coke products. But that's why I collected no things. It does, however, make birthday's difficult. No one ever knows what to get me. So I end up with money and dinners. It will do me suppose.
I can't stand the boredom of the slow work day. The dismal lack of fortitude causes intense pains of nausea to rise from my stomach, creeping its way slowly up my chest and into my throat. The great thing about being a manager at a small independent coffee shop owned by a woman who lives two hours away is that I have the freedom of discretion when hours of operation are concerned. It’s-slow-fuck-you-we're-closed. I lock the doors, turn out the lights, and stand there just for a moment, letting the utter silence envelope me. The CD player still turned on and set at a barely audible volume, for mere background noise purposes, wafts a breeze of Joni Mitchell my way. Before I give Blue the opportunity to hold me captive I turn it off, step outside and close the door to the shop.
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With nothing else to do the rest of the day, I allowed weariness to lay me down in my bed.
An attempt at a nap gave way to intense feelings of loneliness. I suppose an empty bed will tend to do that to people on occasion. It wasn’t even so much the empty bed, really, or the beginning darkness of dusk--but the silence. The goddamn motherfucking silence. Soon silence coupled with a random thought of the locational existence of an ex lover introduced the god forsaken loneliness. Quickly God began to flash scenes from every relationship across the movie screen of my closed eyelids.
Every man has their name on a spot of my body. A spot that, once deserved, I let be theirs and theirs alone. No matter how much I try, their handprints are never fully gone.
Moe loved my breasts. He liked the way his dark skin clashed against the ivory white of my flesh. He would trace circles around the baby pink of my nipples.
Jon appreciated the crevice in the small of my back. When we were silly, he would tease that I had a body of water on my back, a pond. And I would ask if there were any duckies to be found. He would let out a sigh of delight, "mmmm, pond", whenever playful wrestling brought his hand to my back.
Gabe loved nothing about my body. Sex with him was boring because of this.
Zach loved my hips, and the place where they curved into my waist. My intimate connection to him was based in his admiration of the place on my body which I admired in men. I slept on my side just to feel his palm cup my hip and slide up the profile of my belly.
Jonathan, not to be confused with Jon, loved everything. He liked my legs, the rounded muscle of my claves and the gentle strength of my thighs. He loved the soft fairness of my skin and the curve in my belly that set it apart from my hips and breasts when I laid on my back.
There were others, of course. Evan liked the entirety of my body in his arms, and Mike liked my breasts. No. Mike liked to cum on my breasts.
I am no pillar of perfection; At first glance, I do not warrant a second. But these men gave me a moment of time, in turn, I showed them passion or comfort or dirty sex or love. I showed them what they saw in the body parts they chose to delight in.
I take into custody an online man now and again. They have yet to see the color of my panties, but they get more. They have no body part. The only thing I have to show them is everything that I feel inside and that's what they fall for. That's what they all fall for, because they've never seen anything like it. Maybe that's why we all do it. We're all so beautiful online.
And there was David, who deserves a space all of his own. We hijacked my car one night and drove to Georgia...and back...because we realized halfway to North Carolina that we just couldn't do it. Mother dearest was upset, to say the least. She took me into the doctor for a pregnancy test and all sorts of questioning. I just couldn't explain to her in any words she'd understand that David didn't need to touch me to make me feel alive inside. He believed in me, and that was enough. I suppose trying to explain it all to her wouldn't help given the condition of the car. Have you ever gotten into two accidents in one night? I have. But he never knew the long-lasting effects he had on me. He never knew that 6 years later, I still thought of him often. So I suppose I'm still not sure what part of my body David lays claim to. I suppose in order for him to lay claim to any part, he'd have to want it first. I think he has my eyes, my gift to him.
I decide, fuck the nap. No amount of weariness is worth the emotional nostalgia of all things gone and dead.
I had to get out.
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The previous night ended with no true release and I awake mid-afternoon to the same emotional wasteland.
Being alone depresses me. And I swear to heaven above that it’s a fear steaming back from the days of being forced to live in a college dormitory. Horrible stuffy cells of a thing those dorms are. You spend your days and nights just wishing to be anywhere but stuck there. Because it’s so cramped, and if you could just have your own space, you reason, you would be such a better person. Because somehow in your mind, you pretend that your own pathetic waste of a life is no fault of your own, but rather the fault of the system, the forced-to-live-on-campus-housing-system. I suppose the only good thing about the situation as a whole is that you come in forced contact with 300 other students just like yourself. And of those 300, you may even find a friend or two. And no matter what time of day it is, there are people. Somewhere. Doing something. At least. 4am, 5am, no matter. There’s bound to be at least one insomniac to identify with somewhere.
So when you leave. When you get the freedom you’ve been begging for night and day. You suddenly find yourself sinking into this dark whole that has no purpose in your life. No growth can come of this. It’s merely a black hole of void that was instituted to replace the anger and resentment you felt so long; anger and resentment for a silly little building. And maybe that’s why some people just stay angry at things forever, because hell, it beats that whole void scenario. Better to feel something bad than nothing at all, eh chap?
But it’s no matter how I came to feel the way I feel, really. Because the point is: I feel it.
< Cigarette break>
I quite smoking a week ago, did I mention that?
Eh.
I can hear sirens in the distance. There’s a fire station near here. So the sirens sing to me day and night. I can find no peace.
Dear narcissus boy…I should really write more unsent letters. Only this time, I should send them
My window faces the front yard and I can see right through into my neighbor’s kitchen. Sometimes I feel like a voyeur of sorts. Maybe sometimes I am. She really should put on clothes if she’s going to stand right in fucking front of the window. It’s not proper, really, especially with saggy tits like those. For God’s sake, it’s one in the afternoon.
< /cigarette break>
Sometimes when I feel that way and I feel like I have no way out of it, I just drive. Because when you’re driving, even if you have no place in this world, you at least feel like you’re going somewhere. Or rather, at least people think you’re going somewhere. Every time I see people driving I wonder where they’re going, and then I think, hey, maybe they’re just driving circles around the same route just like me.
The cigarette I just smoked was the first in a new pack. So through deductive reasoning you can most likely conclude that last night while I was driving nowhere I stopped to buy them. Apu, you know, the store clerk, was outside smoking a cigarette of his own. And I understand that, so I told him to take his time, I had shopping to do anyway. Shopping. At a quick stop with self-serve gas. I can say some pretty lame things sometimes. So I poked around the store waiting for him to finish. There was a subway sandwich shop inside. You know, one of those franchise inside of a franchise kind of deals. This always amuses me to no end. The entire world is becoming one giant mega-mall. And condoms too, I mean they had condoms. Flavored and scented, the whole nine yards. Safe sex is very important to people nowadays. I contemplate some chocolate milk, but go with apple juice instead. I notice that Apu has been done with his smoke for some time now, so I mosey on over to the counter, you know, since I’m done with my shopping and all.
“What’s a pretty young thing doing out all by yourself tonight?” He says.
I really hate when old men say things like this to me. Sometimes I just want to spit back,
“Well I’m lonely, and I figure what a better place to meet a quality man to be the father of my children than a self-serve gas station…and really, if you weren’t 50 years old, I’d be begging you to take me in the back and fuck my brains out.”
But as we’ve covered earlier, I’m too nice for that. So I just smile. Because that’s what nice girls do. They smile a lot.
“You’re lame. He says.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll just leave it at that. Unless you want me to be mean.”
How fucking DARE he!
“No, no, I have to hear this. I am interested in knowing what about my 15-minute stay here has brought you to this clearly accurate in-depth diagnosis on my disposition as a whole. Be mean. I’m begging you.”
And I really mean it when I say that. Because genuinely, I’m interested in how people see me. Not because I’m quick to change to suit them, but just because sometimes it’s good to know.
“No, I don’t know you well enough to break down your personality.”
“I’m a human. I have higher thought processes…don’t you think I’ve broken down my personality enough already? I know everything that’s wrong with me. You won’t be telling me anything I don’t already know, just what’s obvious to others.”
“I don’t feel like being mean. I would rather be nice and playing with a girl’s hair.”
“Nice. What the hell good does being nice do?”
He snickered. But it was more of a laugh really, this laugh…this crazy laugh that I’ve only heard once before when I was in Europe years ago and I was ballyhooed into watching a street performer do a little show in the middle of a London market square. This “I’ve seen things you’ll never see” laugh.
“Being nice gets you far once you’re mean and grab the girl’s attention.”
Pathetic.
“Is this how all men operate?” I asked.
“Yes. But it’s only based on how all women react.”
“Yes. You’re right. We’re all addicted to the assholes. So give me this “mean” and oh so accurate assessment of my personality. Be an asshole. And you’ll have my heart forever.”
“I don’t want your heart.”
Touché. And he was right. No man wanted my heart. No man could handle my heart.
“Fine”, he said.
“I think you’re an attention whore who seems to blame everything on your past and other’s actions towards you instead of taking hold of your own future.”
Holy shit. I wonder what he would’ve said if I had gone for the chocolate milk instead.
But, I had to agree.
“The past has already happened, I say. I hang on to that because I haven’t learned how to control the future yet.”
“Nobody has”, he replies. “It’s life’s mission.”
“I know, so we develop defense mechanisms to deal with it all. It’s only natural.”
“Fuck a buncha that.”
I’ve paid, and I just want to leave. But I’m in awe, still. Since when does one get this sort of otherworldly intelligent advice from Apu, the store clerk of a self-serve gas station? And suddenly, all I can really think of is the fact that he didn’t really sound like a guy named Apu should sound. Actually, he looked more Italian than anything. Maybe next time I should be a little more considerate. Next time I shouldn’t jump to call them all Apu.
And I pick up the results of my shopping, a pack of cigarettes and the apple juice, and as I’m leaving I just sputter out,
“You’ve changed my life.”
“No I haven’t. You’ll wake up tomorrow and everything will be the same. People don’t change like that.”
More brilliance! I couldn’t take it anymore…from my philosophy teacher, maybe; my Lit professor, most definitely. But not from Apu, the store clerk at a self serve gas station. Or whatever his name is. I do a quick look back. Steve. The nametag says Steve. Maybe now I could rest more soundly knowing his name was Steve.
< Cigarette break>
He called. He wants to talk about things. Well I’m tired of talking. I’m tired his constant decisions and constant inconsistencies. Come to think of it, the only constant things about him are his inconsistencies. Can’t we just feel the happiness of puppies and babies together? Why do we have to make these things so complicated? Life’s like this…
She’s STILL naked! For God’s sake, it’s two in the afternoon now. Put on some fucking clothes.
< /cigarette break>
I guess I don’t really know what life is like. Apu was right. My life hasn’t changed. Why doesn’t even the perfect insight change us? We do we have to be so stubborn. It’s a double-edged sword, really it is. Because now, we KNOW what we need to change, we just don’t have the strength or the motivation to change it. So now, instead of sitting around feeling empty and lonely, we feel discouraged by our lack of motivation to find the motivation to change. So my defense mechanism just happens to be hanging on to and blaming the past…because that way, I don’t have to assume responsibility for how pathetic I am sometimes. I come close to breaking away sometimes. But it’s so scary out there. And I’m really so afraid. What’s so wrong with having a defense mechanism? They’re normal forms of coping with life, right Freud?
I’m just rationalizing now.
I’ve lost it all again.
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Comments: Read 8 or Add Your Own.
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Five AM and i can't sleep. i can't give up these adderall highs. social and happy by midnight, bored and lonely by 5am. unless there's a jesse online to entertain you. which tonight, thankfully, there is.
Last night the house was 60 degrees. Hardwood floors are not conducive to warmth. So i decked myself out in a flannel nightgown, thanks to grams, and some lovers old pajama pants.
I am a pajama pants conoseiur. Some girls take shirts that smell like thier men. I take pajama pants. does that say something about my relationship with the men? does it have to? does it matter? i think it's just because it's more reasonable. i'll never wear an ex's old undershirt. you won't catch me sportin' the only tactile memory of our mutual affection. not anymore you won't. i'll go for something i can wear and not remember to whom they belonged. i'll take something and mark my scent all over it.
so back to the flannel. no woman can be sexy in a flannel night gown, especially when coupled with reindeer pajama pants and grey ski socks. flannel t-shirts, perhaps. but a full out nightgown? i looked in the mirror and thought to myself, "this is so hideous i can't even masturbate."
but my bed is the most comfortable place in the world to me. because i have four pillows; because i can't sleep with any less. and of course my room had the delightful stench of stale smoke, so i had to open the window in order to freshen it up a bit. This, of course, set off a sequence of events that led to the temperature drop of at least 15 degrees. So, in turn, I had to light all the candles to compensate. And then I couldn't sleep because I was afraid I'd burn the house down.
But my bed is so exhilirating when it's the warmest thing in the room. I'm so comfortable I don't want to fall asleep because I don't want to lose the feeling. The same rules apply for sleeping with a man. I get so high from the feelings of bedtime companionship that I stay awake to keep the buzz. I could never hack it up north. I would never get out of bed.
I do believe I've used up all of my space for tonight, dear readers. As you're all sleeping soundly right now, I'm neglecting my bedtime affair with my pillows.
These adderall highs will leave me sleeping all day.
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Comments: Read 5 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, April 9th, 2003
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So I was sitting down trying to get some work done, and while pulling my book from my lap, i knocked over the ashtray. While picking up the ashtray, I tripped over my cellphone cord and sent the phone flying onto the bed. I left the phone and my ass ended up on the floor as i tried to sit back into my chair on wheels. Frustrated, I just pick up everything and threw across the room, slamming into walls and coffee exploding onto my hardwood floor.
I always feel better after a brief fit, until I realize I'll have to clean it all up at some point. I really hate the cleaning up process of a old stale fit. It hardly seems worth it when all it does is cause you to drop to your knees, paper towels in hand.
and these boxes. i'm surrounded by the boxes of my last impulse. the only bad thing about living out of rationality and logic is cleaning up the mess of your momentary impulsory thoughts.
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Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.
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"take your life in your own hands and what happens? a terrible thing; no one to blame" -erica jong
"i merely took the energy it takes to pout and wrote some blues" -duke ellington
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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never try and talk to old lovers from long ago...they never feel like sharing the war stories that brought them to whatever point they're at now (especially when they know you've got the inside scoop on how shitty it's really been)...
however, when it turns out that his roommate frequently shares his online identity, you can't help but tell yourself that all the times he never responded were time when it wasn't him at all...that if he knew it was you, he'd indulge you enough to carry you over for months.
but dangerous it becomes, to enter into conversation with the aforementioned roommate. because what information will passed on to david? how lame will you look talking to the roommate? just don't give your name....and goddamnitt why couldn't you have used a different screenname? because we all know you are a the queen of all multiple personalities.
except now you learn that you were in gifted with this roommate, whose name is joey, way back in 5th grade when life consisted of making solar powered ovens and playing oregon trail, and reading the biographies of marie curie and albert einstein.
this is the game of online excitement. it's all fun and games until reality hits the fan.
stay tuned for my comentary on how to give the perfect blowjob. it's a skill i think all women should be familiar with.
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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and she says of me...
"Jean Harlow sleeps under blood red sheets, on the second floor, overlooking a moon-blued palm-lined street. She slides the window down (because that's how it drops) and lets in the blue; sweeping around the ceiling like smoke. And everything is blue. Except for the blood red sheets. And Jean and me."
and it's me. white curtains, white down comforter, red sheets. because that is how i live my life, because that is who i am.
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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Thursday, April 3rd, 2003
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he wants to talk of love and life and all things cliched. he drowns me in the never ending monotony of these conversations and how they always go....
so i just wait...
...
and i do that nod thing with my head so it looks like i'm listening intently. and finally he says, "but now i feel like fucking your brains out", and i feel a little embarassed that i hadn't been paying attention. and a little dirty for giving in when i shouldn't.
that's it. not much more to this one.
good story, brad. shuttup.
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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I am a crush whore...(and an email slut if you've been keeping up). It's a different kind of climax. It's the build up of not knowing, and the climax of acceptance. and then I'm done. and then I want to push you away and roll over and go to sleep, 'cause i've got shit to do.
but something about it is sweet. something about me wants to be with you forever and ever. if we were the last two people around except for those freaks on the other side of the island, i'd probably fall in love with you.
but i'm not attracted to you. i can't take you out in public. i am shallow. i think you need a haircut. did your mother buy you that shirt? could you please remove your tongue from my pussy long enough for me hang out with my friends and get on with my life...don't worry, i'll call you when i want more.
i could never date a man who didn't tip.
i don't need another man in my life to be addicted to. so i take my drugs in pill form with my own glass of water.
friends don't kiss hello or goodbye, and fuck-buddies never kiss at all. and i don't know what to label this, so i'm just going to call it over.
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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i call to ask how things are...i call because you were my everything for a year and we haven't talked in weeks.
you silently said you wouldn't be moving in, that you'd collect your things and flee this town...because nothing good has come of it. because women have too much baggage. i'm hurt already and you haven't even begun.
you say i'm nothing more than a checked off name on a long list of people you've wasted too much time on.
"everyone has baggage"
but you interupt to cut me deeper. you talk of my inconsequential nature in your life.
and i stop you. because fuck you. because i'm the only one to never hurt you. everyone else left you. you broke my heart and i stayed, because that takes more strength and courage than tucking tail and running home.
how dare you.
and if she's the cause of this, as i knew she always would be, if she's fucked you over like the rest...i will rip her soul to pieces and she'll be beyond repair. i'll delve into everything i know about her and of her and i will ruin any life she's tried to rebuild in this town. i will send her parents snippets of her "poems" that go on and on of all the bad things she's done. i'll post a list of all the past transgressions she's committed in every room in every building around this campus. when i run out of ideas i'll put her number in every bathroom in every bar because even the tiniest ripple in the ocean of her life is enough to justify my actions.
but then i'll walk away from you.
it's nothing i'll do for you. it's what i'd do so she'd never hurt another one again. but i'm done doing things for you. because fuck you. i deserve better.
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Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.
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wet frustration and mental masturbation. fuck. pin it down in a photograph album and forget what never began.
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Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.
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emails. emails are beautiful. emails are divulgence without expectation. words are powerful and you can say anything you want...but it's not a kiss or a slap across the face or a definite ending, because things should never begin or end in emails. i've become an email slut. i've become addicted to giving all of myself to a person without becoming addicted to them. because i click send and then carry on.
i can't do that in a real relationship. relationships become such an addiction. i don't think it's safe that i've used that word so much so early.
to completely change the entire tone of this entry. work. and people. and how work and people just suck when you put the two together. when did this entire nation of people become so fucking incompetent? so, i provide these for your pleasure...
rules for not pissing me the hell off at work:
1. do not ask me if we have bagels before you even look for your damn self...and if i respond with an aggitated, "yes, right over there." do not waste my time by asking me to tell you all the kinds when have when you can look for yourself. i am not your mother.
2. get off your fucking cell phone. cell phones are ruining civilized society.
3. put your own sugar in your drink. that's why we have this entire bar of stuff to add...and that's why it's all the way at the other end of the shop.
4. for the love of god, please don't put 54 cents on your credit card. (just to note, i've given away so much free coffee just because people want a refil and then hand me their credit card)
that's about it for now. now is the time for dinner with friends who i want to be my make-out buddies.
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Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
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