I’m unhappy.
It’s weird that I hoped that you could help me.
You did help for a little while
and then you left for a really long time.
Maybe you changed your mind while you were gone.
I guess that’s okay.
Archive for December, 2011
You treated me like a hobby problem worth conquest
like those really shitty teen movies
where all men are assholes and write all the girls up on a fuck list
with points
or
you treated me like cheap, low-brow entertainment
like those really shitty Hallmark made-for-TV after school special tear jerkers
about peer pressure or the exploitation of retards.
Do you understand what I’m saying? Your greatest motivation when interacting with me was simple corruption, but I didn’t hold that against you. I didn’t really care, because you held no influence.
Upon reflection, it would have been nice to grow up with decent friends, but…you weren’t one of the few that momentarily had me convinced. I remember you as the sad, fucked up bitch that lost my keys.
That bothers me more than anything.
I lost my keys that night.
I never got them back, and it was your fault.
That’s why I remember you.
You were the third of dozens of people I’ve met since childhood
who got your kicks from casual sex with an audience present.
Let me rephrase that, because I’m not sure what I just wrote is accurate.
You were the third person to successfully employ me as your audience for a sex show.
You pulled me out of my world
with no way to return without your assistance
because we were miles away from anywhere I’d ever been
or knew.
Even if I had managed to call a third party for assistance, I honestly had no idea where you took me.
Kudos.
Where are my keys?
I visit the Craigslist Missed Connections board when I need to cheer myself up.
I am not the only pathetic creature prone to maudlin sputterings of absolutely trite and useless sentiments. Sometimes, it helps to remind myself.
Eventually, I won’t have to take my frustration out on strangers.
Things that I used to collect and have since discarded:
stuffed animals (probably the first thing I started collecting)
sporks
dragon figurines
broken wrist watches
cardboard
candles
costume jewelery
trolls
kool-aid points
leaves
fancy soaps
stickers
loose change gathered from the ground kept separate from all other change (five years)
buttons
puzzles
erasers
socks
educational pamphlets
letters
hair combs
makeup
pillows
Things that I used to collect and still have in some portion or entirety:
milkweed silk (four years–forced to stop because it doesn’t grow here)
missing persons mail blow-ins (five years)
nail polish
house plants (lost almost all of them through various moves)
wasp paper
pens
novelty lights (like lava lamps–I used to have a lot of lava lamps)
alligator paraphernalia
porn
homework assignments
rulers/measuring tape
yarn/twine/string/cord but not rope
popsicle sticks
magazines
legos
beach glass
instruction manuals (I have finally convinced myself to stop collecting these recently.)
hats
Things that I used to collect actively, have kept and still add to occasionally:
rocks
crayons
maps
artwork from people I have met
chocolate wrappers/packaging
ribbon
beads
paint
different types of glue (There have to be over 50 specialty glues in the other room.)
Things that I have been collecting for over a decade:
shiny paper
insects
paper billing statements
books (Although I lost almost all of them about four years ago, the collection now makes up about half of the bulk I move each time I relocate.)
glitter
glass jars
feathers
snake skins
shells
foreign currency
…
My mitten clips are both accounted for and in the same place for the first time in…five years.
Alas, I currently live in winter t-shirt weather.
your skin peeled back.
You woke up to ask me what the fuck I was doing.
What the fuck is this?
In a better world, you would have slept and let me sleep.
I think I’m going to be okay for a short stretch, or if not okay…better.
Better.
We’ll go with better.
Write me in.
It’s always a pain in the ass when something lines up and hits with an epiphany that states the obvious way too late to be of much practical use in the day-to-day handoff.
Fuck.
Clear moments are always the hardest to contend with, rendering comfortable fuzzy stretches in sharp contrast.
I don’t like the lucid moments anymore.
They’re so painful.
I used to look at magic eye optical illusions backwards. The image receded instead of advancing. They were always kind of annoying that way.
My grandma died before I finished writing to her about the piano.
I stayed because of you. A dream showed me that. I stayed because of you, and I woke up unhappy, because I can’t go back and meet you there.
You’re not there.
I try to remember what you said, but I was so upset…and it wasn’t written down. I try to remember what you said.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
All I remember is anger.
All I ever remember now is anger, but wasn’t there more?
Why does it hurt so much?
Why do I miss you?
It looks irrational now; what I did, how I reacted to information that was only tacitly supplied. It’s all written down though. That’s all written down. The information that…you gave me.
I guess you did what you wanted to do.
I responded honestly
and deleted almost everything.
Today, all I can remember is making you angry.
Most of the time, I just…don’t want to see this for what it is.
I’ve let my feelings for you completely destroy me.
I read shit about how my brain is all fucked up
and then I read about a foreign country to take my mind off of this one for a day or two
because everything is fucked up and I might just as well get some variety.
Then I have a nervous breakdown when I finish reading and I’m left alone with myself;
Breakdowns usually complete with hallucinations that I have to analyze later to ascertain
what would be a simple determination
to an outsider.
Try it.
It’s not interesting.
It’s not fun.
It’s just the way things are.
Sometimes.
Did I talk to you yesterday or not?
Are you sitting with me now?
When did I move this piece of paper (or did some unwelcome party move it for me)?
Are they talking about me in the other room or is the house empty?
I don’t know if it’s more disturbing to lose time
or gain excess information about shit that never happened.
It’s hard to piece the fragments into a coherent flow
and language slips.
Language slips away from work in the middle of the day
and I’m left to fend for myself without it.
The time of day
the place.
It’s not just names and faces.
I hate sleeping.
Water has been refusing to follow the laws of physics.
Put your Psych 101 texts away.
I have to listen to shit about how I’m sick
how I have a chemical imbalance in my brain
how it’s not my fault
and how I’ve been this way for most of my life.
Medication is the answer
the panacea.
It will normalize my
mood
mind
sense of self
Life?
Most importantly, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
Ashamed?
Everybody that so much as suspects that something’s amiss
has something to say.
When I stop to think about it for too long, my eye develops a subtle twitch.
This is all meant to be helpful.
As much as is said on the topic of helping…
You said you were happy.
You were angry with me, because you thought I was upset that you were happy
which wasn’t directly true.
I might have been a little upset
that someone other than me helped you find a moment’s happiness
if not your own…
at least a moment.
…
The shit I read states that I’m delusional
and I must be delusional, because I don’t think I am.
I disagree, and that’s a nice Catch 22 symptom in the hallmark of soft science.
The shit I’m supposedly thinking is broken down for me
but I don’t see it the way it’s set up
all non-sequiturs and generalized assumptions that make sense in short strings but rarely add up.
…
I openly admitted that I was jealous.
…
I still haven’t accepted that I’m delusional.
…
I still think it’s you that I saw
that you’re real
that you’re still there
but it doesn’t matter.
It just doesn’t matter anymore.
I misinterpreted something important; something vital…
so I read about how I’m a fuck up when everything is fucked up
and yet
somehow
I’m incongruously still missing…
you.
They all listen to the same stuff
with mild variations.
It’s not that I hate Lady Gaga and Eminem.
Well…
No.
Britney Spears is on my hard drive right along with Tuvan throat singers.
I can’t tell you which names go to what.
I click on a playlist one day, and it’s the right thing.
I click on it two days later and have to talk myself out of deleting it, because I don’t know why the fuck I would have ever created it.
I’ll come back to it an hour later and think it’s perfect again.
I code via tactile color: amber buttons, tacky red lacquer, fuzzy pink washcloth.
These are the names of my playlists.
This is how I function.
If I feel like shaking a “cloudy jar of baby teeth” a list entitled as such will get me through the duration.
I can’t tell you that I ❤ this song! I can't sing along. I can't tell you who the fuck is singing, and I don't care.
Once you are here with me, you are stripped of name, genre, and track number. You cannot find your way back to the world of iTunes for $.99 a piece from here. The lines have been cut. I don't do it out of disrespect, and sometimes when I lose you, I miss you needlessly, because I don't know how to get you back…but I'm okay with that.
Stop.
Stop asking me what I listen to. Stop trying to swap names with me. I simply do not know and telling you that I'm on a baby blue number dripping a slippery metallic substance from a five-hour block of "shattered safety glass held together with a sheet of dark window tinting film" is not going to help you to understand.
I'm sorry.
I just can't have this conversation.
The field was gone, but the mud looked fresh in the swamp where the cows’ hooves sink and suck as they graze. Without a field, why would the cows still graze, and why weren’t they sinking up to their bellies?
Why wasn’t I sinking?
The mud spattered my shoes, but I felt easily and evenly supported. This was not the marshy field behind my house that I once knew, but there was still no mistaking it as the same place. Surely, the cows knew.
I followed a shallow depression; a canal paved in bricks almost entirely obscured by the fine clay sediments congealing into a thick slurry. The ditch bordered two sets of fencing that ran parallel to each other with a gap of plush, finely manicured grass growing between them. Even if I could have walked between the fences, I would have found the idea of touching the grass uncomfortable.
The fence closest to me consisted of standard chain link that I could easily see through. While it had no forbidding razor wire running along the top and only ran over my own height because I was trudging through a canal, it did appear to be as well maintained as the lawn that created a 2 meter alley between me and the farther stretch of fence. Periodically, the metal netting arched across the canal and buried itself into a damp cinder block wall that significantly hindered my view in the opposing direction.
The second wall of fencing varied inconsistently and changed in short lengths.
I was looking at the individual property boundaries to the backyards of forgotten neighbors, but I only realized this when I reached my own yard. Here, the two rows of fence converged abruptly to accommodate for an older, taller and sturdier fence made from the same standard chain link…although showing more age.
There was no way into the yard, and it didn’t look like anyone had bothered to try for quite some time. At some point red brick replaced worn lath and plaster, but no one closed the windows to the wind or the rats. When I turned to the field, I understood why.
Why the fuck do I suddenly have a sidebar posting goal?
I’ve once again sidestepped the automatic double spacing, but…
you’re making it very difficult for me to ignore you.
Shouldn’t I be able to ignore you?
If I “Upgrade to Pro” will you let me ignore you for a fee?
Is that the new exchange rate?
Does this wasteland need sponsorship?
I just want to write some shit down, and you keep interrupting me.
Granted, nothing I have to say is even remotely important, but…
I would still prefer to jot it down in a cursory fashion that I am not prompted much to think about.
I woke myself (and likely my housemates) up screaming like a deaf elephant getting murdered this morning.
The field was gone, but the mud looked fresh.
I see you’ve fucked with the auto formatting again, WordPress.
…
…
I’ll have to think about this, because it makes writing a little too distracting when I’m forced to double space…
Damn.
Fucking high, and mighty old man.
You ruined my day.
I was there to pick up a 67 cent can of corn
to live off of for the next two and a half days
after finishing my forty hour week
before crawling around at night to make ends meet
and you fucking ruined my day with your smug “state law” bullshit.
How long were you rehearsing that shit?
Did a few too many people pass you on the right this year?
I’ll have you know I broke zero laws within ten minutes on either side of our exchange
and it took a hell of a lot of self-restraint not to fuck you up during your condescending, unsolicited, and uncalled for soap box speech about how you’re so much better than me.
You are.
You don’t have to live off of bargain basement canned goods.
Maybe you’ve seen some shit I haven’t, because you’re an old fuck.
Maybe I’ve seen some shit you haven’t, asshole.
I hope you fall over dead in your social security funded white wonderbread Christmas ham.
and so we meet again 