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What would it be like if the last few days didn't actually happen? If you didn't actually talk to me late into the night? What if it was all a dream. What a fool I'd be. That'd be a funny joke to play on someone, a worldwide conspiracy to forget an entire week. Nothing happened, sir, I don't know what you're talking about. I think that this person, this butt of the world's biggest joke, would probably die of shock, or at least admit him/herself into a mental institution. Boy, that'd be funny. I'd get a laugh out of it.
Pete wrote in an entry that he wasn't sure if he was an adult or a child... or what. Well, that's just the problem with everything, isn't it? Nothing really is the word for it. Okay, well, it's a dog... but... what kind? Collie? What colors? What pattern? What sort of disposition does it have? Is it overweight? Unhealthy? Dead? Does it know it's own name? Collie refers to very few of these characteristics. Back to Pete... you aren't a collie, at least not likely. You aren't a child or an adult. Is anyone, really? You are you. The end.
You ask how I got here, and all I can do is shrug. For the longest time... days and nights... years in and out, I've wandered. I have crossed my own path a few times in the process, and I've seen few signs that were of any use to me. You ask who I traveled with... and I couldn't tell you even if I did have the time. I answer: whomever I could find to walk with me, they were my companions for however long they chose. I hardly ever knew their names, or anything about them. So many faces.
I was wondering... how long I would have to wait. I don't wonder any longer. A choir sings "as long as you live" and I drop to my knees. I beg for reconsideration. I've put too much in to get nothing in return, but above my pathetic form, I know there is a head shaking... and I fall to my back and stare into the bleak and lonely sky. Empty, vast, dark, it's like a mirror. Tomorrow, however, the sun will rise, and I'll follow suit. With any luck, everyone and everything will have forgotten my sentence. Off to sleep.
You were right when you said that I'd be good to you. I'm wondering if you'll ever know just how right you were. I can't be good to you if you aren't here, dear. You said I knocked you off your feet, but you surely have been up and walking somewhere without me for quite a time now. I'm telling you though, if you let me catch up, I'll do it again, I'll carry you along, do what it takes to make you smile. Nothing can convince me that it wouldn't be worthwhile. No amount of effort is too much.
I'm feeling a bit empty, a bit laughed at, a bit of a fool. I really can't tell what's going on. If you really do call tonight, that would help some. I'm thinking that you probably don't want to talk. Maybe I'm just a little amazed that anything ever happened between us, too amazed to think it could continue. It just has seemed like you've not wanted to speak to me, or see me, or anything. You could say I'm used to that sort of thing. More than anything, I'm just afraid to be so far into you already (again).
It's not often that you are told to give up. I'm not so sure why not. It would be just about the best advice I could give someone. I'm beginning to believe. I'm starting to think that the truth is, it really isn't worth it. Everytime I get too low, something comes along and makes me forget, lifts me high and drops me, breaking nearly every bone in my body. The key is... not to lift too high, just high enough that I'm broken and bloody, but never quite dead... yet. I'm anticipating the day that I'm lifted too high.
If I were the clouds, I would rain all day. If I were the sun I'd scorch the earth. But If I were the wind, I would stop moving and disappear completely. If I were the ground, I'd open up and swallow everything in sight. If I were a volcano, I'd hide the world in my ashes. But if I were the trees, I'd let you cut me down. If I were the moon, I'd fall into you. If I were the mountain, I'd slide down to your feet. And if I were a human smile, I'd die on impact.
I was so excited to open the package and see what was there. I was anticipating a thing of beauty, something that would be worth holding on to for as long as I lived. I waited and waited and finally I couldn't stand it any longer. I began to tear away at the beautiful paper, concealing the contents with a neat, organized, perfect beauty. A facade. As I began to see what was beneath the surface, I wept. My gift was empty. I looked up at everyone, searching for an answer. They were silent, and then... they began to laugh.
Imagine the most beautiful painting you have ever seen. It is worth more money than the world has to offer. You couldn't ask for anything more. Imagine what it would be like to have it hanging in your house. It would only take one accident to destroy it, to destroy the most valuable thing you have ever come into contact with. It is so delicately balanced upon a nail, one small tremor and it could all come crashing down. Imagine yourself throwing it away because you couldn't stand the pressure. What a relief you would feel with that responsibility gone.
I look for the letter of my choosing, then I hit it. I repeat this process for quite a while. As I do so, the letters I have chosen hang there in front of me, spectres of what I have thought and felt. They have taken on a form that is far more linear in nature than what I felt they were. Now they hang in limbo between me and everyone else in the world. They can be yours, you can see them. You can look upon every single letter, but you will never see the fear in my eyes.
If your name says anything, it says it about your parents. Take the name "Guy" for example. Gee, Guy, you must have had some pretty uncreative parents, Guy. That, or maybe one of them had some gender insecurities and felt the need to ensure that no one ever mistook you for a girl, Guy. Man, Guy, it must get irritating having people calling you Guy all your life. Do you ever ask yourself it they are calling you the Guy with the capital "G" or the one with the lowercase "g?" I bet that would get annoying. I'd hate that.
I'm only 18, so are most of my friends, and people that I talk to. It's weird because so often one of them will use the phrase (or one resembling it) "these days." Girls say it, especially. What I don't get about it is that we are only 18. Have you really known other days to compare these times to? Childhood, maybe, but that was only a day when you didn't understand. Likely that little has actually changed, except your perception, your understanding. Your point of view has seen better days. And when I think about it, so has mine.
Sometimes I wish that I knew someplace else... I wish that my sphere of familiarity extended beyond the limits of this city, a few neighboring ones, and the roads between. But then again, maybe I'm not looking for something familiar. Maybe it's just my instinctual nomadic tendency. Maybe I'll never be happy with knowing someplace. I don't really know if that is the case, but I hope that if it is, it doesn't carry over to people. I'd like to think that I can deal with familiar faces, and be happy with them if need be. I think I can.
Reindeer need presents, too. Christmas in the sand is the best Christmas of all. Tricycles, freedom, tricycles, children. He rides his little tricycle, the wind whips through his hair until his tire hits the too-high curb and then... the bicycle is stopped, but he is not. The momentum he had, he still has. He is superman. Santa is the best. He loves you, like god. Only difference is, god makes you confess and feel bad. Santa gives you presents. Santa also has the ability to multi-manifest. God doesn't manifest at all. Yay Santa. Santa rules, Santa rules, Santa rules! Yay.
Is complacent ever really enough? (It) seems to me that there is a constant demand for ecstatic. I suppose that the high demand and oh-so limited supply is good reason for the high price of it. That's the economics of life, I tell you. What might cause a shift in the curve? I think that people have given up on true cloud nine and opted for a substitute. That's where drugs, prostitutes and suicide come in. This world, this place we live in, is such a beatiful place to be. That's what I'm going to keep telling myself. Good night.
I stare into the backs of my eyelids. I pull the covers over my head. I toss and turn, I roll over. I stare into the backs of my eyelids. I lay so still, lifeless. If anything was watching me, it would think that I was dead. It would no longer wish to kill me. It might, however, still want to tear my corpse apart. I stare into the backs of my eyelids. I have been in my bed for days now, afraid to make a move. There are monsters out there, and if I look out, they'll see me.
It's okay if you laugh at me, I know it is funny the way I am. I know that I am akward and unwieldy, like a 7 foot broadsword for a little midget woman. Just don't turn around and tell her what you think, I'm counting on the outside chance that she wasn't staring, too. That's just how I'll live my life, hoping that no one saw, that no one noticed. This way, I can laugh at myself and be alone like I always would be anyhow. There is something to be said for turning a loss into a tie.
Advertisements can be pretty funny sometimes. Kroger's had a huge sign up that promoted the good gas they had there. Now... don't get me wrong, I need gas just like everyone else (for the car, that is... not the gastro-intestinal problem gas), but what the hell is so special about gas you get from Kroger's? It's the same damn stuff you can get anywhere else... well, at least at any gas station. I dunno, it just makes me wonder how many poor saps actually think that there is some difference in quality between their 89 octane and that of Kroger's.
I hope that I'm not running out of things to say, and I hope that I'm not losing my motivation to write these entries. I'd like to think that outside forces have made it difficult, that the joy of being free from school (however temporary) has caused me to toss my other obligations (though I suppose that isn't really the word for it) aside. This probably has something to do with it, but two-toed or three-toed, a sloth is not for me. I am not woman, I do not roar, but here I am... nevertheless? Someone put me to bed.
So... what if parenthetical statements didn't count as words when you were counting up... trying to get to (either by adding or subtracting precious words) 100. You could really cheat the system, huh? You could tell everyone what to think and not have to let them wonder what you really meant... your parentheses would rob them of free thought, and you could feel safe, knowing that everyone knew just what you wanted them to. What an awful thing that would be, and so I must always count the words in my parentheses. If I didn't, I'd not be at 100.
I wonder what you think when you hear my voice on your answering machine. I felt like it was the right thing to do... to call. Most of all, I wanted to... I wanted to talk. You didn't pick up, so I left a message. You never called back, and so (once again) I'm left wondering what I should think about the fact that you didn't call back. Any significance? Just carelessness? Who knows, but if this time's anything like the last, well... I suppose I'd rather not know. Probably shouldn't dwell on it though... I don't want to assume.
At 3 AM, my thoughts begin to become sort of smashed together, and not in that convenient unified sort of way, but more like I can't tell one from the other and I'm likely to confuse you for someone else or at least make you think that I have... and this is not the most productive of all states to be in because if someone desires to have a meaningful and interesting conversation with me (they often do) then it is going to be problematic with me rambling on about something that seemed to be related and relevant until now.
I remember being little and being so anxious to wake up on Christmas morning... to the presents and everything. I had to wake my mom up, and then make her call dad... wait until he came up to the house (they've been divorced since I can remember) and they'd watch me open what they got me. It wasn't all that long ago. Now I just want to stay in bed, but my sister comes and wakes me up because it's her turn to be excited. I'm not unappreciative... I just know that it can wait until I'm not so tired.
People that hate the holidays are goofy. I guess some people think that if their parents or grandparents are dead... they can no longer enjoy the season. That's not true, my dad's side of the family is proof. Some people hate that you're supposed to be happy... what is so bad about that? Sure... there are some downsides to the whole thing, but who cares? I'm not religious at all, but even if you look at it from a secular standpoint... it is fun, and hey - it helps the economy if we're all buying presents. Buy, buy, buy, little capitalists.
And this is a day far better than Christmas day. On Christmas you get your presents, but on the 26th, you get to use all of them. Provided, of course, that you don't have to continue on to a slew of other family gatherings... luckily, I don't, so I plan to stay home and make good use of my presents. I also intend to go to the mall and spend the gift certificates that I got. I have an idea... instead of lowering interest rates, Greenspan should push for a 6-month calendar, so that Christmas would come twice as often.
I miss talking to a lot of people. I don't know why they just slip in and out of my life like this. It probably is my fault... somehow. I feel like they don't want to stay in my life. If I stop talking, only silence is left. I'm starting to get clued in. Maybe I can only guilt them into listening for short periods of time. Time's up, buddy... move on... next victim. They probably sigh their sighs of relief every time I hang up the phone. To those people who have slipped out of my life... I'm sorry.
The digital atomic clock/calender/thermometer hangs on the wall, spreading information and joy throughout the room. The light instructs you on a safe landing from your jump... or a safe jump from a squatting position... if read from right to left. The space heater oscillates and disperses energy. The computer speakers sit dormant. The television is asleep, but it reflects the room in its slumber. In it you can see a lonely person sitting in front of a monitor... desperately striking the keys before him. He wants a companion. The space heater breathes its warm breath on his leg, comforting him.
As time goes on through the night, I remain stationary, with the exception of the few times I have run upstairs to get something to eat. I'm hungry again, but it's 5 AM and I'm thinking that I don't need to stay up too much longer, and consuming more food would cause me to do so. Therefore I will stay glued to my swiveling, rolling office chair, bogged down by the carpet. Its rolling function may be useless on this troublesome terrain, but thankfully... it still retains its ability to swivel with the best of them. Swivel, swivel-chair, swivel away.
Poor Brett is going to embarrass the shit out of himself. I've been moved out of that house for two months now and he still doesn't know. He's going to kill me, but it will be worth it. Seeing him harrass a poor stranger because he thinks she is my aunt staying at my house will be priceless. I can't even imagine what the lady will think... she just might call the cops on him, thinking he is insane or something. She doesn't even know who I am, and Brett is convinced that she's related to me. I'm a bastard.
So close and I know that I couldn't have moved another inch. I know you felt my lips against your neck, and I know that my breathing made your heart beat faster. Don't think I didn't notice, and don't think mine wasn't racing as well. I know, though... that I couldn't have pushed things any further, or I would have broken everything. I am about to resume that position that I was in earlier... but this time in a context much more cold and hostile... lonliness. Against me will only be the blankets and no one will whisper. Goodnight, (name).
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