Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
on crop circles, and anhedonia
Crapazoids
Calla lily lived in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1999. The apartment practically knifed itself up out of black cement and yellow lines, in Chesterland, Ohio, a green golfer's paradise. The cops and plazas and SUVs were necessary to navigate. Fine linen air and open windows took her down one flight of stairs to talk to a guy who knew her friends and they knew who he was. She took a walk with him but he was just a guy, someone here, and she swears it was winter in the summer time. They didn't walk by the bread shop or the Chinese restaurant or the drug store, but she saw leaves and it was fall. Boy said "nothing's funny any more. Everything funny already happened."
She took a different walk in the infinite possibility of another boy, the one who hung with a speed freak. Their shoes matched their cigarettes, and he asked her to stay over night and she said no, being so far off the city in the clean wet television shimmer. She should have said yes, because she was nervous. She kept that distance of unrepentant death. Spiders reminded her of her grandmother, gone. She sensed home, steered left, ate subs.
Calla lily lived in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1999. The apartment practically knifed itself up out of black cement and yellow lines, in Chesterland, Ohio, a green golfer's paradise. The cops and plazas and SUVs were necessary to navigate. Fine linen air and open windows took her down one flight of stairs to talk to a guy who knew her friends and they knew who he was. She took a walk with him but he was just a guy, someone here, and she swears it was winter in the summer time. They didn't walk by the bread shop or the Chinese restaurant or the drug store, but she saw leaves and it was fall. Boy said "nothing's funny any more. Everything funny already happened."
She took a different walk in the infinite possibility of another boy, the one who hung with a speed freak. Their shoes matched their cigarettes, and he asked her to stay over night and she said no, being so far off the city in the clean wet television shimmer. She should have said yes, because she was nervous. She kept that distance of unrepentant death. Spiders reminded her of her grandmother, gone. She sensed home, steered left, ate subs.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
ghiving it up
Procrastination is an art for you. I'm not sure why I'm so emotional today. I went through what I think is the depression stage of minimac the jack russell dying, the depression was on Monday and the death of minimac was almost a month ago, I guess. I'm not getting up to find my calendar. If I get up, I might never come back. I stayed up all night sunday to monday, and then most of last night, too. I stayed off the internets, though, because I have been on here too much lately and not finding what I want. Well, maybe I found it, but the ensuing mental breakdown left me sobbing in front of the bathroom sink while cutting my fingernails with scissors. Not too attractive, but bloodless and the roommate never heard because he was not home.
More to say? Someone said, to paraphrase, we're not monks, and we can't endure that situation. Living with my ex is shikso, because of the guilt, because we still usually sleep in the same bed, because he reads into my emotions and he's always wrong, but he rescues me, too. I probably told you about my crushes. When nobody else is there for me, he finds me and takes me home. Then again, I'm not a worm-filled, starving, side and head gashed puppy who might be put down. I think I'm a person. Or a pear. Even a plum, if we're talking about fruit. I swear I will be all right.
I had to write my own obituary for school. I used some lines from a friend's. I hope he doesn't mind. If my expseudohusband ever said anything I agreed with, "you can't get cooler than a junkie." Delivered with empathy, we were one again. I could tell you the chamomile tea story. That's a bad one. I feel like I don't want to try before the roomie gets home, but it is a short story.
Also, I can't lock the privacy, fare as I know, so babies:
i got ril sick and he left me on the bathroom floor with a cup of chamomile tea with the bag still in it. a few hours later I got up and crawled into bed where he was (lying?) with his big foot out of the covers.
so, the theme is bathroom floor. and sore neck. and how I do love to cry.
More to say? Someone said, to paraphrase, we're not monks, and we can't endure that situation. Living with my ex is shikso, because of the guilt, because we still usually sleep in the same bed, because he reads into my emotions and he's always wrong, but he rescues me, too. I probably told you about my crushes. When nobody else is there for me, he finds me and takes me home. Then again, I'm not a worm-filled, starving, side and head gashed puppy who might be put down. I think I'm a person. Or a pear. Even a plum, if we're talking about fruit. I swear I will be all right.
I had to write my own obituary for school. I used some lines from a friend's. I hope he doesn't mind. If my expseudohusband ever said anything I agreed with, "you can't get cooler than a junkie." Delivered with empathy, we were one again. I could tell you the chamomile tea story. That's a bad one. I feel like I don't want to try before the roomie gets home, but it is a short story.
Also, I can't lock the privacy, fare as I know, so babies:
i got ril sick and he left me on the bathroom floor with a cup of chamomile tea with the bag still in it. a few hours later I got up and crawled into bed where he was (lying?) with his big foot out of the covers.
so, the theme is bathroom floor. and sore neck. and how I do love to cry.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
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