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The laughter is what I remember the most. Our classes were always playful and filled with a mad sense of joy, as though we tried to soak up as much life as possible in fifteen weeks. The vivacity of the thirteen of us, combined, threatened to cause the room to burst at the seams. It was heavy at times, and forced—the sluggishness of late afternoon, the caged feeling of walls too close together and ideas too precious to share. But the feeling of being together, the unbearable tightness that bound us, makes me long to come back for more.
Even God seems to know what day it is. And he's acting on it. Snow. Lots of it. Rain and snow. A perfect April Fools joke from above.
I thought about writing something funny today- but I'm not in much of a funny mood. Not sleeping well- things on my mind.
Missing you uncontrollably- can't stop talking about you. Or thinking of you.
Tadpoles still legless.
Kitten still annoying.
THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE RA!!!!
No further grandmother updates.
One hundred words is occasionally not enough- next big thought will span a few days...
The next one's for the children.
Will they or won't they? That is the subject of today's Talking Points. When playing the "He said, she said" blame game, it's always important to remember who has been considered the dominant partner. His or her desires tend to win out. In a case such as this one, that would shift the balance toward They Will. However, one cannot discount the fundamental stubbornness and gaslighting of a woman thwarted. That would lend credence toward They Won't. Since they have so much trouble making up their minds, one would think it nice to have a third party decide for them.
My parents were young when they had me. Twenty two and twenty one, dad being older. As a result, my grandparents were reasonably young, and five of my great grandparents were still hale and hearty. As a result, I got to know them well. Dad was young, full of energy- not an old man- as I grew up. I've counted myself fortunate for this- and wanted it for my children. Now, it doesn't look like that's going to happen. And it vexes me. At this rate my children may not know any great grandparents, and I think that sucks, badly.
The eternal waiting game is played every day. She holds her breath, waits for the other players to make their move. Ladybug gonna be friendly today? Then be friendly back. A bitch? Then be the biggest fucking shrew she's ever seen.
Lover gonna call tonight? Better sit around waiting.
Say you'll be there at 7:30? Be prepared to wait until 8:15.
Never take responsibility for anything. It's always someone else's cue. Base your reactions on the standard set before you and you won't have to be accountable. There's nothing you have to do that someone else can't do for you.
My maternal grandmother is a wonderful person. Always, she puts everyone else first- a truly selfless person. My maternal grandfather has devoted much of his time to others via Boy Scouts- they are excellent influences, examples I know I'll never live up to. My paternals are the same way. And that's what really aggravates me on the whole kids thing- I want my children to know these people. And even if the world changed, and she suddenly wanted to and a child was born tomorrow- it's really too late. Realistically, by the time s/he'd be old enough, they'd be gone.
He fucking hates me. I suppose this is what I get for confiding in someone. I needed someone to talk to, someone to advise me—and I'm not stupid; I didn't expect a round of applause—but I didn't expect such a shunning. He says I'm self-destructive. Maybe he's right. I saw his signs, though, way in advance: "Conform to my way of thinking or you're on the outs." And I ignored them. I thought I could change it. It's so unfortunate, though…because now, this lady is moving far, far to his left—as far away as I can go.
And perhaps I'm being just being selfish- but I'd like to think that's not really it- see, I don't want this for me, per se, I wanted it for the children. Knowing these relatives was a good thing in my life- and I want good things for them- I want them to have it better than me. And already I've allowed them to be deprived of this chance. By giving in, by letting it go, I've let something be taken from them- a thing they should have had. And it really, really bothers me. Eats at me. Tears at me.
I'm not sure quite when I became a member of the ‘chicks with dicks" club. Walking in the drizzle this evening, I remembered how I used to be such a
. Rain, snow, cold, manual labor—I tried to avoid them at all costs. Now, I don't even think about it. My day starts early and ends late, I work hard, and I don't mind getting wet anymore. Sure, I'm tired of wearing the same sweatshirt and jeans everyday, but my seven-ton truck is nearer and dearer to my heart than my precious first car was when I was seventeen.
And she doesn't care about it- it isn't a big deal to her. "My great grandparents were all dead when I was born"- so it isn't important to her- and like anyhting else that isn't- she doesn't care if it is important to me. It doesn't even matter that it was a thing I wanted for our kids- oh, wait- what kids- like we'll actually ever have any. I am such a fool- I thought it all would just "work out"- idiot. Now I'm here, upset about this and bound to a person who couldn't care less about it. Good job.
I think Ladybug has something to do with the transformation. Sheer toughness in a tiny little package, she is. I feel guilty when I see how hard she works. She's always moving. She sits in one spot for exactly half an hour every day--out of ten. I wonder what she does on the weekends. I imagine her in jeans and a soft cotton sweater, hair wet from a Saturday-morning shower, watching television on the couch. Mindless existence until the next Monday? That's the thing, though: when you know someone only in a work context, you know nothing about them.
A good thing happened- A prayer was answered. I checked my email- and you had written. A simple message- but it was so good to hear from you again. I know this doesn't mean a formal end to the no contact- but it sure was great to hear from you. I must have read it a hundred times- and I will probably read it more yet. It matters not what it says- it matters that it came from you. And that makes it precious to me. Every single thing I have that is of, or from, you is precious to me. Everyone has treasures- and things like the frog bracelet are mine.
The decisions regarding the future are tough ones to make. As with most things of this nature, I've decided to refuse to make them. I know I can't do that; sooner or later, something's gotta give. But I can't change. I'm scared. I'm scared to face my family, my friends, and most of all myself. I'm afraid to lose, and whatever I do, I know I will. Lose, that is. And there's nothing I hate more than losing. My pride is the most important thing to me. It's my downfall. It's the hell that is my life. World without end.
It may be my fault- I've set this tome. I have tried hard to be an us- but, I have come to discover that I am apparently alone in that. I have given- sacrificed so much- my desires on our wedding- graduate school and my career as a professor. The first job I loved, I lived in the gulag- an opportunity I wanted to pursue, children young, children at all, it seems... The dream of shaking the dirt of this misbegotten state- There are place I want to live- she won;t do it. I've suborned my desires, and for what?
"The pressure to be beautiful." I've heard the phrase so often spoken of the entertainment and media business, but I still don't buy it. Fake blonde hair and plastic surgery never used to do it for me…but it can if it's
by the recipients themselves. The idea that these people do it for some screwed-up modicum of both public and workplace "approval" is ridiculous. When one is confident enough to say, "This is who I want to be," who are we to say it's nothing but materialistic and vain? It's beautiful, and it looks much better on the screen!
There's no hope for change- we're right where she wants to be. About a mile from "mommy"- In her hometown. And we'll never leave, not together, anyway. I've compromised my needs and wants- and she's gotten hers. There's no incentive for her to change anything now- and I'm out in the dark. "don't brood on it" she says- yes, let's control my mind, too! I want to talk- she says "i'm tored- I don;t want to talk now" and goes to bed. Like she has a fucking monopoly on being tired! Well, I'm tired too- of all this crap!!!
Truck. Door. Keys. Alarm. E-mail. Voicemail. Other e-mail. Sales. Worksheet. Deposit. Phone call. Re-stock. Rain. Windshield wipers. Work. Tired. Truck. Nextel. Downtown. Bitches. Wind. Cold. So tired. Machines. More machines. Chicket! (Yo, baby, what's up?) Starbucks. Double-parked. Flashers. Middle fingers. Cussing. Sunshine. Sunglasses. Ponytail. Re-stock. More machines. Paperwork. End-of-week. Invoice. Operating report. Inventory. Drivers. Smoke break. Her truck. Reverse lights. Her mad driving skillz. Trash. Ramp. Rail. Boxes. Laundry bin. Hand truck. Compactor. Don't fall in. Backache. More paperwork. Cards. More voicemail. Sunset. Headlights. Stars. Streetlights. Jupiter. Full moon. Cigarettes. Starbucks again. Magazine. Waiting. Buzzer. Door monitor. Unlock. Keys. Home.
Every night I see it, burning in the sky, evening star, glowing, shining brightly. Forever fixed to light the night- a beacon throughout the ages. Since ancient times is has been there, and for thousands of years it will continue to be. What has it meant, to how many people? A guide to ancient mariners? An omen before a battle? Inspiration for a legend? And how many times has it been what it is to me, a symbol of faith, of hope, of love? A visual reminder of a loved one far away, giving comfort and solace on the long lonely nights? How many times?
I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America, and to the Republic, for which it stands, one nation,
indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
What's so awful about that?
"There should be no problem with taking it out," he says. I say the people want it. We like saying it. The people who
in an America under God like saying it. Hell, I'd be willing to bet that God Himself likes us saying it. It makes me feel good to say it. As though our country is blessed and people recognize that.
What is home? A commercial on the radio here would have you believe that it is a two letter word- "MI"- the name of their company. Is it a place? A building? No, that is just a house. It takes more to be a home. Home, perhaps, isn't so much a place, as it is a feeling. Perhaps a feeling one gets when they are where they want to be- a feeling when they are happy, safe, secure? A feeling of being, well, at home? No, as the saying gose, home is where the heart it. So my home is you.
Ladybug has too much gray in her hair. It seemed suspiciously redder a few months ago. Dye job, then? Or maybe that turd of a job is causing too much stress. I wonder how often she gets it cut. I would assume fairly often, as its length (or lack thereof) remains consistent. Her eyes are the bluest I've ever seen. Even bluer than my husband's. They're like marbles the color of the pale April sky. And how little she is. It makes me feel protective and strong. Oh, and she wears earrings. One must concede to femininity a bit, sometimes.
A new dream. Walking down a beach, you at my side, waves rolling in, the wet sand squishing between out toes. The water washing up, over our feet. A cool ocean breeze blowing in from the sea. Off shore, seals played in the surf, calling to each other, barking over the roar of the sea. The sun shone overhead in a clear blue sky, warm on our skin- and you looked radiant. A simple dress, hair flowing down your back, falling around your shoulders, your hand in mine. And the I woke- cold and dark and quiet, and so alone.
"You were there like a blowtorch burning
I was a key that could use some turning
So tired that I couldn't even sleep
So many secrets I couldn't keep
Promised myself I wouldn't weep
One more promise I couldn't keep
It seems noone can help me now
I'm in too deep there's no way out
This time I've really led myself astray
Runaway train never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here nor there
Can you help me remember how to smile
Make it somehow all seem worthwhile..."
Alone. So alone. I'm always with someone- her, a co-worker, cats, what have you, but I always feel alone. Except with you. The I feel like I'm not alone. I feel alive, complete, whole. At peace. Happy. It's kinda nice, really. And I just realized how inadequate my words are. "Kinda nice, really". It doesn't even come close. But I will keep at it. I will someday find words worthy of you. I hope I at least make sense- that my ramblings can be made into a cohesive form. That I can be understood- despite my often inadequate words.
"...How on earth did I get so jaded
Life's mystery seems so faded
I can go where no one else can go
I know what no one else knows
Here I am just drownin' in the rain
With a ticket for a runaway train
Bought a ticket for a runaway train
Like a madman just a laughin' at the rain
Little out of touch, little insane
Just easier than dealing with the pain
Runaway train never comin' back
Runaway train tearin' up the track
Runaway train burnin' in my veins
Runaway but it always seems the same..."
(by Soul Assylum)
And Susan said at the end: "All love is unrequited." Strong, sad words. And I used to believe it. Used to think it was true. But it isn't. I have learned that thanks to you. "Love is an endless commitment to pain". There's some truth here- but it says nothing of the hope, the joy, the wonders of it- of us. Why does the sun shine? Why do flowers fade? Why can't it be simple- why couldn't we have met first? Why can't it be "around 100words"? If this is wrong- I don't want to be right. I need to see you.
Oh shit, oh God, oh crap, oh no. Did that just happen? Did what I think just happened actually happen? Oh, yes sir, it did. Rejected. Strikeout.
Big time. Oh my God, I want to die. Okay. Let's think logically, through the frustration and fear. What did I think would happen? What did I even
to happen? A relationship—hell no. I'm married. And even if I wasn't…I'd be too scared. Hot sex in the back of the BBT? Uh…I plead the fifth. But alas…down in flames I went. The conversation went a little something like this:
Spam, in a can
NO SPIN ZONE
Yabba Dabba Doo
Hoobastank? What kind of name is Hoobastank?
Seventy Four Ninety Nine
I have the power of sunglasses- take that, sun!
A side order of whoop ass
Scrappy doo is right out
Lonely among us
All the good porn names are already taken
A very special friends- what, is this Blossom?
I need you
I'm burning for you
I'm home when I'm with you.
Well, before the conversation, the back story would probably be helpful. We were at our usual spot, in the usual configuration: she was working, I was being lazy and yakking as if I in fact wasn't as extremely far behind as I was. We went through our usual repertoire of whining—we are, after all, the local queens of bitchcraft—discussing the shitty weather (it was pouring), the workload, management of our respective companies, etc. To make a long story short, I said, playful and sweet like, "Have coffee with me sometime."
Looks like this will continue into the next…
I am becoming addicted to Bill O'Reilly. This is not a bad thing, I think, because there is much to like about Bill. His keen wit and penetrating acumen are admirable. His total lack of fear of offending people in pursuit of the truth is, in the modern media, quite outstanding. He is looking out for us all, and we need it. What with all the leftist media elites and all. He reminds me of my old master. I get surly now when I miss the factor. Thank you for introducing me to his work, dearest. He kicks ass.
So I asked. I was proactive, for once—I didn't stand back and just deal with my unrequited little-girl crush as I've done so many times before—and where did it get me? Well, at least she looked flattered. The two facial expressions I was hoping to avoid were Angry and Confused, and I didn't get either of those. What I
get, however, was a long string of bullshit about how she wasn't even going to be in town the next week…and then in a few weeks, there will be a change of venue for her!
My heart hurts.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?
Drink like a fish, baby!
Sleep and I have a poor relationship these days, it seems.
Do you dream of me, still?
Counting sheep doesn't work, at all- neither does watching Insomniac Music Theater.
Still alone, even in company
Secret, Agent Man!!!
My faith in you, is my strength.
What would be the best time for a Cylon strike?
Ah, advil, blessed advil!
If it looks like a trap, smells like a trap, it is likely a trap.
Okay, I'm still on the topic of my sad, pathetic life. Oh, the agony. The insult to injury. Not only to be rejected, but to get rejected
in the form of a blowoff!
By being told a senseless stream of random information that I'm glad I now have (oh, how am I going to get through the next endless amount of weeks after Ladybug leaves?) but that wasn't exactly in direct relation to the initial question asked. When I ask a question, I want an answer, dammit!
But at least I didn't get Angry or Confused. There's always an upside.
A measuring cup of water in her hand. Me, on the far side of the kitchen, minding my own business. A slip of the hand. The cup falls. Mercifully, it doesn't shatter (good pyrex stuff), but water spills out, droplets of it cascading though the air, falling everywhere on the floor. The cup rolls about on the counter like a wounded animal. There is a momentary silence. Then, she rounds on me, fury in her eyes. "Thanks a lot", she snaps at me. Like it was my fault! I get blamed for everything- and it angers me.
Froggies. Jessica Simpson. American Pie. Diesel. Dale Jarrett delivers! (We want to race the truck.) Jeep. Stars. Wide open spaces. Rednecks. Pale fingernails. Number 88. Bracelet. Sunscreen and champagne. Band camp. First crush. Fear factor. Freedom. Life. Love. Cigarettes and caffeine. Exams and pajama pants (a good luck charm). Sandals and short skirts. Why the hell can't it be me? Why is it always someone else? Raindrops on roses…and on hand trucks and work gloves. White versus brown. Stick versus auto. Eleven feet versus ten-four. (Which, by the way, is bullshit.) And so is this entry. Glad it's nearly done.
If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it, will she still blame me for both the tree falling and the lack of listeners?
The incredible edible egg.
Beer- it's like bread, only liquid.
If it looks like a cannibal is about to eat you- tell him you are a clown- he'll let you go because he'll think you'd taste funny.
I need a robot dog in the worst way.
Yeah, she'd blame me for it- who am I kidding?
Bigger, Longer, Uncut
I miss you.
No, I really miss you.
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.
I didn't forget, dear.
This day is one soaked in blood. In seventeen seventy-six the American revolution moved past spoken words to a clash of arms in the battle of Lexington and Concord. In the Civil War, a Union gunboat was sunk by the Confederate ironclad Albemarle. More recently came the assault on the Waco compound of David Koresh- an action I agreed with, but resulting in much bloodshed regardless. Then came the related bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma- more casualties. I'm sure there have been more incidents. This day seems bound in tradgedy. And I am bound to it too.
My love, she throws me like a rubber ball
Oh, the sweetest thing
She won't catch me or break my fall
Oh, oh oh, the sweetest thing
Baby's got blue skies up ahead
But in this I'm a raincloud—
You know she likes a dry kind of love
I wanted to run but she made me crawl Oh, oh oh, the sweetest thing
Eternal fire, she turned me to straw
Oh, oh oh, the sweetest thing
You know I got black eyes
But they burn so brightly for her
Mine is a blind kind of love
Oh, the sweetest thing...
Dragonfire, burning bright, scorching the ground for my delight!
I don't normally use this space for this sort of thing, but I recently got a new game for the playstation called "Drakkengard". It kicks total ass! You get to fly around on a dragon, tearing through armies of enemy troops. Usually in games like this, the dragon is the bad guy, and cooks your goose. In this one, you get to do the grilling. It is remarkably satisfying, if a little sick, perhaps. But, if you are into the whole fantasy action genre, this game is for you.
I'm losing you
Oh, I'm losing you
Ain't love the sweetest thing
Oh, the sweetest thing
A blue-eyed boy meets a brown-eyed girl
Oh, oh oh, the sweetest thing
You can sew it up but you still see the tear
Oh, oh oh, the sweetest thing
Baby's got blue skies up ahead
And in this I'm a rain cloud
You know we've got a stormy kind of love
Oh oh oh, the sweetest thing.
--from U2, a band that I hate but a song that I love.
How do I get over the sweetest thing? I'm tired of this happening
I'm on vacation. It's warm here. Far different from "home". The pollen hangs here, a yellow dust over everything. Thank God for the miracle of anti-histamines. We're out here to, in theory, try to reconnect- no distractions, just spending time, but it doesn't seem to be working. All I can think of is you, and I wonder how amazing it would be to be here with you. I do like it here. I wonder if you would fall in love with it too. I've got it bad for you, and I like it. And that is good.
a dye job. Ha! "Great color," I said. "It's beautiful." And she actually had the nerve to look flustered. As if I wouldn't be able to tell—it went from fluffy and grayish in one day to short-cropped and dark red in another. Oh, and with cute magenta streaks topping a few of the curls. (What
the deal with that, by the way?) But it looks fucking schweet, baby. And then there's the jewelry. Watch, earrings, necklace…all in yellow gold. (Yuck. But I'd let it slide.) Oh, and the golden-brown tan of her arms…it's short-sleeved weather now….
My birthday was the other day. I didn't write about it then- I knew not what to say about it, but I know now. It all goes back to the days before, and the constant badgering about what I wanted for gifts. I could not think of anything in particular, other than to be left alone about it. "But you must want something" yeah, to be left alone. To not be older- to be free of this crap. That's what I wanted. But no one could give me that. Time doesn't stop, and the rest is up to me.
Ah, yes. I forgot. Speaking of the gold jewelry…I forgot
Yes, folks, the heart-twisting continues—the ring on the finger has changed. On a sunny gloveless afternoon, at the usual spot, practicing our procrastination, I take a casual glance at the fine-boned fingers of Ladybug's left hand…and what do I see? Instead of the
one (remember? Silver? Decorative? Shiny black oval pseudo-stone?), there is what I would
to be a fucking DIAMOND on a thin gold band! WTF? I'm so irritated by it all. It's at the point where the only word for it is ‘irritated.'
I have a serious problem staying on topic, at times. I often find myself unable to keep it, to quote Bill, "pithy". I have gone from writing a serious letter to someone to rambling about the current climactic/atmospheric/paranormal conditions at my location and back to serious all in a matter of a few sentences. I sometimes change tacks within a sentence. Occasionally I do it in spoken conversation, confusing the hell out of the person I was talking to. It can be confusing even to me, at times. Thankfully, you don't seem to mind my ramblings too much.
It's irritating because I'm so goddamn tired of this going on. I've finally realized that it will
stop. And it's sad, because I really hate living like this. It hurts. Every time, it hurts a little bit more in some ways—but a little bit less in others. It's somewhat like a chronic illness: each episode becomes easier to manage, but also more frustrating. I don't know how many more weeks (days?) I have to deal with this particular episode of madness, but I'm hoping to come out of it with at least a shred of my self-esteem remaining.
What do you write when you can't think of a blasted thing to say? Do I ramble on and on and on and on like some stupid foolish droning, skipping record? Or do I try to find some kind of topic to do a half assed job on? Do I try to wax poetic, or do I just wax? Look for the lyrical, or churn out the blasé? Try to tell an amusing anecdote? Try to revise and extend earlier remarks? Rehash an old rant? Bust out the soapbox and comment upon the news of the day?
That's a wrap.
No words today. Nothing different to say. Every day is the same as the last, really. There are minute changes from one day to the next, but in the grand scheme of it, nothing is different. Monday melts into Tuesday, et cetera. The weeks fly by; I was horribly surprised last Friday when it was month-end already and I was unprepared for the paperwork. And the months themselves are passing faster than they've ever seemed to before. In the past year, I've seen so many changes in my life. I can't keep pace with everything. I can't catch my breath.
Took delivery of a box from my parents today. It contained some minor odds and ends, most significant of which were my high school yearbooks. It's interesting to look at them, now, and see where I've come from, and see the faces I've left behind. Friends long lost, one dead, now, most simply not seen since graduation. The silly band uniforms, the all too serious senior pictures, the lame school pictures. It brought back some memories, I must say. I have seen all of your yearbooks- I can't wait until you see mine. I am interested to get your reaction.
A lovely day is leaving work at four o'clock on a brilliantly sunny afternoon, after a long leisurely day of half-work, half-play—what I like to call days where I can drive a lot and do light physical work—then heading right for the tennis court, with a partner who's improved so rapidly, he's nearly better than myself. The blowing breeze, the way the trees throw patterns of light onto the court, and the feel of my ever-strengthening muscles stretch and flex are sublime. Inexplicably, in these moments, my nostalgia takes over, and I can barely breathe through it all.
It's quite peaceful here, now. Alone in the house, the kitties asleep, the TV off. The soft strains of Mozart's Violin Concerto Number Three, Third Movement float throughout the house, courtesy of the computer's built in compact disc player. Sometimes, the loneliness of being truly alone is preferable to the loneliness I feel around others. But that is neither here nor there. I sit, relaxed, looking at pictures of you. I need more- I want the ones we took when I was there, before I had to leave.
I wonder what would happen if I had a bumper sticker made that says "Ladybug is Sexy" and attached it to my company truck. Keeping in mind that not only are company personnel all over the place all the time and could possibly spot the truck (and thereby said bumper sticker), and that I see Ladybug all the time throughout the course of the day, one of two things could possibly happen: someone important would see it and I would be reprimanded; or Ladybug herself could see it, freak out, and come kick my ass. It's probably a bad idea.
Judicial activism is a big problem. B-B-B-B-Bill had a story on about a child molester. This guy was let go by an appeals court because his victim had committed suicide over the incident, and as a result the molester could not "face his accuser". So our villain goes free while his victim lies dead. This isn't justice. It also sets a dangerous precedent. Can all murderers go free because they can't face their deceased victims? Think about it- that's what these judges have told us. No live victim, no guilty verdict.
I want to say yes—but I have to say no. Does that make sense? Probably not. It doesn't even make logical sense to me. But that's the way things are in the real world, the adult world, the world in which we live. I suppose I sound like a total hypocrite saying that, as I'm a girl who lives in her dream world and refuses to grow up. But on this point, I'll take the hypocrite label simply because I can't deal with being the kind of person I've turned into lately. Terrible it is, and sad I am.
A bit about what I'm up to these days:
Listening to: the Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World soundtrack.
Reading: From Fields of Fire and Glory: Letters of the Civil War.
Modeling: A Chesapeake and Ohio SD50.
Eating: Donatos works pizza.
Drinking: Samuel Adams Boston Lager.
Driving: Jeep, or Monte Carlo.
Watching: The O'Reilly Factor- I am a total fucking addict, anymore!
Writing: these hundred words- and reaching to get enough.
Looking forward to: talking to you.
Irritated by: the cat. (if he gets on the table one just more time…)
No I would not sleep in this bed of lies
So toss me out and turn in
And there'll be no rest for these tired eyes
I'm marking it down to learning
Don't think that I can take another empty moment
Don't think that I can fake another hollow smile
It's not enough just to be sorry
Don't think that I could take another talk about it
Just like me you got needs
And they're only a whisper away
And we softly surrender
To these lives that we've tendered away
from Matchbox 20, "Bed of Lies" (Mad Season)
This is out of character, but I am going to plug something again. This time it is the book I mentioned yesterday. It is called "From Fields of Fire and Glory: Letters of the Civil War". It's made up of letters written by soldiers during the Civil War. It has letters of both common soldiers and officers alike. There are simple stories of camp life, and letters written upon the deathbed to loved ones far away. Those are the most moving of all- words from men who were trying to say goodbye, trying to comfort those they were leaving behind.
Three thousand are done. Seven months since my last. Life is passing faster than I can keep up. Memories are being replaced with new ones at a rate that I can't even
Melodramatic? A little. But it's true. For example—four and a half years ago, all of life was different. There was another blue-eyed, short-haired lovely…there was the beautiful campus on which I still spend the majority of my time. But there is so much that is different…it's indescribable. Not in one hundred words…not in one thousand. I continue on my quest to find the words…to have validation.
End of the month again. Wrapping it up for another month. Another three thousand words written. A year older- perhaps a year wiser. Not much richer, fiscally. After today, only fifteen days until the sixteenth of May and the end of the no contact period. I cannot wait to speak to you. It has been vastly too long. Hopefully you do feel the same way.
The evening star shines above me as I write this, and as always it reminds me of you. I wonder, does it remind you of me as well? Does it comfort you too? Make you happy? I truly hope it does.
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