crutch.

So indecisive.

and I've had 2 Bad Days.

I thought i'd have words when I came here.

I don't.

There was that moment while watching Easy A when Death Cab was playing in the background. It made no sense.

And then when I received the news today. (discouraging, crushing, disappointing. whatever.)

And then: school.

And oh. My Mother told me the reason that nothing ever goes right for me is because I don't go to church. (She doesn't go, herself.) Which, caused me to scream things i've never heard myself say before. Things I wasn't even aware I felt until they were delivered by my own voice.

Then there's that song on the new Fleet Foxes album.

And driving at dusk last night.

So that's... six.

Well, seven. Counting the thing I refuse to directly think about, but I am nearly always indirectly thinking about in some form.

So seven times.

At least the weather is on my side.

steps.

With proper perspective:

Be quick,
but don't hurry.

two questions.

How do you measure my intentions?
My prudish words
The arc of botched inventions.
Vessels traverse the miles,
Expand dimensions.
How do you measure my intentions?

Our intimate positions
deliberate brigade,
substantial flickering, then
The morning hour fade,
Beyond the scope of towers,
encompassing man-made.
Our intimate positions
deliberate brigade.

If I am amiss,
I stand to be corrected.
Your fingertip pulsations,
The venom they injected.
The hands and hearts
Of others,
Discarded and dissected.
If I am amiss,
I stand to be corrected.

Do you stack my hunger up beside your bed?
Like magazines,
with all the words she’s said.
To keep, to keep, to keep,
But mine’s to shred.
Do you stack my hunger up beside your bed?

A real letter.

The final time we had sex you lasted about a minute and a half. I can’t say that I was disappointed.

I was nowhere close to being naked. You were too hasty to remove my panties. Just hiked up my jean skirt and shoved them over to the side. I only recall the way the bristly hair on your legs felt working between the smooth, silky skin of my own.

Did you kiss me on the mouth? If so, it was unremarkable. But, You never were much for kissing. I remember that first drunken one you bestowed upon me in that parking lot last summer. Back when I was resistant, before I’d decided to try you on. Before your persistence stuck to me, like the grass clinging to our wet feet and bodies the time we had sex in your backyard. Before I squandered all of my Summer Fridays in your bed, sleeping but not embracing, like two strangers required to be bedfellows by circumstance.

Before all that.

That first night, I loved the taste of beer on your lips, your tongue.

10 months later; I loved nothing about you. Nothing outside of your latest stint with expeditious climaxing, that is.

You finishing that quickly felt like a godsend. The soft hand of a higher being patting my shoulder and gently saying “There, there, now that wasn’t so bad. Was it?”

I guess what I’m trying to say here is: You mean nothing to me. And you never will.

approval.

This weather brought a thought to my mind:
Last year, while working at the Country Club, I had some sick, twisted crush on a man who was a customer there.

He was married, and I never yearned to touch him. God, no.

He wasn't intelligent or very attractive or even polite. In hind sight, he was actually quite obnoxious most of the time.


But when he'd tell a joke, he'd glance over at me to see if I was laughing or trying to hold back a smile.

And that...
That's what I think I liked about him.

spring.

It happens so gradually, you don't even notice it

until

the trees are tufts of green,

the tulips are blooming,

and you're contemplating killing yourself again.

runaround.

Pay attention to this because I won't admit or say it often, but:

I am actually feeling.. something. right now. FEELING. Alive.

Not faking. Or lying. Or pretending. Or acting out of obligation.
It's simply happening.

There's no suffering involved. No starving. or skin scratched out. or trying to die. or placing myself into horrid, miserable situations just to experience the slightest stir inside of myself.

(There's a me that isn't a character. Don't worry. I don't know her that well either.)

I just read something that literally knocked the breath out of my lungs.

No one can keep up with me. At least, that's my assumption at this point.

There is this huge gravitational pull on my body. Just stretching me out in all directions.

Waiting to lose an appendage is like any other sort of waiting.

Last week I told Dan the one thing I wanted to see most in the whole world was the Aurora Borealis (the Northern Lights). That dream of staring at something not made by man that blows my mind. I've never told anyone that before. The small circle of people i'm surrounding myself with are slowly tearing down my walls. I wonder if people who watched the Berlin Wall feel the same. Did they immediately walk across into the newly found territory? No, i'm too hesitant. It will require some Time.

I've had a moment from the movie 'Timer'. Short summary: Set in the future where everyone has a timer implanted beneath the skin in their arm that begins zeroed out. When their soulmate also has a timer implanted both clocks start counting down to the exact moment they will meet each other. I think you receive your implant at like age 15 or something, and it's mostly voluntary. But the point of the story is, the main character's timer NEVER starts to countdown. Just sits at zero for years and years. So, she decides to buck the trend and date someone who doesn't have a timer, who doesn't believe in soulmates.

More often than not, I am involved with a "nothing" and faking for their sake that it will magically transform into a "something." Now there's a "something" that in the final dramatic scene will go up in a poof of "nothing" smoke. And, i'm okay with that. But God.. what's the lesser of the two?

I knocked some of my books off the shelf today and as I was picking them up I found a piece of paper peeking out of one of my favorite books, The Bell Jar, by Plath of course. I'd written in really tiny letters:

"I'm nothing, If not vaguely cryptic."

I don't recall writing it. EVER. The note seemed recent enough, though. The paper still white and crisp, scented with the faint scent of my sweet perfume. My memory is outrageous. Embarrassing at times even. (You know, when I remember some minute detail and it makes someone feel special when they actually aren't.) But this note? I don't know. I just don't know.

I'm freaking myself out.

Oh, and I smiled.
The genuine kind.