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Itís been two months since I was last here. Iíve missed the daily outlet. Missed the unadulterated release of my mindís torments (and relishes). Though itís served more of a diary than a daily entry of insightful, witty, intelligent thought, Iíve missed it.
Iím unaccomplished. Sometimes (like right now) I donít care. Other times (like when I realized the majority of my coworkers are gradstudents) I feel the familiar pang in my temporal lobes reminding me I need to do something with myself. But not just anything. Something mind-fucking-blowing. But for now, the paper on Huckleberry Finn will remain unwritten.
Iím drinking my coffee as black as I can handle (Iím still getting used to it). Not because I like it.
I really want a cigarette, or at least a drag. Not because I like it.
I just miss the way you taste.
So I drink my coffee black as I can and crave smoking (eventually I will muster enough courage to buy a pack and get started on revisiting what you tasted like). Iíll even drink merlot if itíll bring me closer to your tongue.
Eventually, maybe, I can develop enough bad habits to get that taste to stick.
I f***ed your quasi brother-in-law four times in five hours while you giggled in the other room.
Heís ten years older than me. A divorcee with two little ones. A published attorney. Ex-Navy. It was the most animalistic sex Iíve ever had. Iím a pale, tattooed, undergraduate English tutor/housekeeper artist that drives a dirty í97 civic. Probably not the kind of girl heís used to. Yet he wants to fly me up to visit for a weekend.
You said he sounds like his brother when he comes.
Iím looking forward to another encounter with more privacy than your guest room.
I tuned in just to hear your voice (because who knows when youíll get around to calling- I refuse to assume the doormat role in picking up the phone first). I donít really care about the music (thatís a lie, I do, itís awesome, you have great taste). Itís damn late and I have to be up in a few hours. But Iím determined to listen to the end lest I miss some candid proclamation of love. Youíre playing strange violin music and Iím brainstorming what Iím going to say to your voicemail when I give in and call you.
I am mesmerized by the taillights. Scarlet orbs glimmering with the perfect cadence to compliment the periwinkle twilight.
Itís autumn full bloom. The sky even looks it. The cold hangs like a beautiful mist, catching the reflections of the taillights on the freeway and expanding them to entrancing proportions. I allow my gaze to unfocus, seeing nothing but those growing rubies against the pale blue-grey dusk. ďTwo WeeksĒ by Grizzly Bear is playing on the stereo, I ďaaaAAAAĒ along at 85mph, and in this moment I am so utterly content I could cryÖ
So long as I donít crash first.
Me: ďWell, what do you feel you need?Ē
You: ďI feel like I need to be on a park bench in Paris, penniless, with bad teeth.Ē
Me: ďI think that can be accomplished.Ē
I want to take you away. You and me. Drunk vagabonds. Needing nothing but our hands in each otherís back pockets and smiling eyes looking always to the horizon. You are my most beautiful dream. You are all my irresponsible aspirations. You are my sexy, bearded bohemian. I was preparing to let you go, but every time we talk, I refuse to abandon hope.
We will happen.
I got tattooed last night while wearing a pinstriped fedora, drinking tequila and Tampico, and talking about de Sade.
The artist is a family friend who works out of his bedroom. His wife making chicken, his little girls playing a Barbie video game, drawings of works-in-progress pinned on the walls.
He worked on my shoulder (the gargoyle Iíve been anticipating for three years now) as I talked about how much Iím busting my ass in school, his wife asking if Iíd like a plate of food.
Who ever believes tattoos are the mark of degenerates can kiss my fucking ass.
ďYouíre so perfect.Ē He slurred as we made out in my car.
I asked, the sober one for once.
ďBecause youíre so pretty, you have nice hair and pretty eyes, youíre soft, good kisser, thin, and you have niceÖeyes.Ē
I dropped him off and cried and cursed you as I drove home. I cursed you for appreciating me. I cursed you for understanding me and loving me- not the idea, but the person I really am. I cursed you for introducing me to that feeling, then leaving me to satiate myself with douchebags that canít see past my tits.
I am starting to burn out. Apathy (my most dreaded foe) is beginning to descend upon me. Iím falling hundreds of pages behind on my reading. I canít get myself out of bed for class in the morning. Iím doubting my ability to help my students. The stairs are a little harder to climb. I canít focus. But this time, rather than distraction/daydream, nothingness keeps my mind from where itís supposed to be.
Iíve never not cared. Failing has never been an option. What if I am just incompetent? Unable to keep up with the big dogs?
This terrifies me.
You called me. This has been the second time in a week. Iím shocked, hopeful, and giddy. It was rude to answer, but nobody,
, takes back seat to you.
ďNot much, Iíve just been drinking espresso and cruising gay personal ads.Ē
ďFind anything good?Ē
ďJust some nice cock shots.Ē
ďIím cruising around in a saucy porche with a married man right now.Ē
ďWell, then, I hope heís at least taking you out to a nice dinner.Ē
Youíre not gay and Iím not having an affair with a married man. I love the fantastical reality we live in.
I came over even though heís a total douche. He
douche. He has the kind of face begging to be slapped.
And I love slapping it. Iím inexplicably attracted to this annoying asshole whoís only interested in me for one thing (and has made that explicit).
We made-out and dry humped ferociously between condescending each other.
And somewhere in there we figured it out. Heís a dick pretending to be nice. Iím a nice girl pretending to be a sassy bitch.
ďI am 100% sure I will not have sex with you.Ē
ďNo youíre not, youíre only 99%.Ē
You called at 9:22. I figured no one worth getting out of bed for would call me so early, so I let it ring. At 10:02 I called you back. You immediately began singing your version of ďHappy BirthdayĒ in your mildly effeminate occasionally cracking monotone. I crawled back into bed with my coffee and we talked for 12 minutes and 10 seconds. Youíd been up all night writing a paper for your French lit class, in French.
The only things keeping you from absolute perfection are your hedonist ways, your height, and the fact you live two hours away.
Only a few people showed up. The mile long birthday party I was anticipating was a no go. After just two beers I was home by 11. Within 20 minutes I was driving myself to the ER in agonizing pain. That spider bite I thought I was having a bad reaction to the past few days began to rupture and by midnight I was getting a staph infection lanced. Happy Birthday, you have MRSA!
Now Iím a pathetic, bandaged, limping, contagious bacteria filled 22 year old.
I really hope this birthday is not an indicator of the year to come.
I had to overhear, accidentally, in casual conversation, from his mother (who doesnít know me) that the reason he wasnít there was because he was in Napa.
ďHe has this rich girlfriend that takes him on vacations.Ē
I know I have no claim to him; he lives on the opposite end of the state. But I am fucking upset that two days ago he said our Napa trip was on, he was going to research good places to visit this weekend. I am upset that I had to hear from his mother that heís there now with his ďrich girlfriendĒ.
Up at 8, no breakfast, no coffee, no painkillers, a bit of a hang over, painful drive to the ER. I had to get the packing removed and replaced from my gross, pussy, infected wound and get the second infected boil that started forming directly below it sliced and drained. I have never felt so disgusting.
The cute nurse scrubbed black tape residue from just below my ass and kept calling me, ďpoor thingĒ. I kept glancing down her shirt and at the glittering rock on her finger and felt even more disgusting.
Iím afraid Iíll never have sex again.
I was offered a wheelchair today. Granted the man had an admitted affection for me and was just trying to be chivalrous, but I wanted to fucking smack him. A wheelchair!? Címon, I have a bit of a limp and it hurts to walk, but I donít need a fucking wheelchair!
My distant man-acquaintance said, ďSomeone as vivacious, young, and beautiful as you doesn't belong in such a contraption!Ē
And I realized itís not just that. Iíve always been stubborn as hell. One of the things my ex hated most about me is my incessant inability to ask for help.
I asked him if Iíd still be ďperfectĒ if I cut my hair. In genuine bewilderment, he
me not to do
to my hair.
So I did.
A girlfriend asked why the change. Recently I realized long blonde hair has always been idyllic. Everyone has always loved my waist-length honey-colored hair. I donít want something as superficial as hair to characterize my beauty. I donít want to be perfect because Iím blonde.
So I cut it to my shoulders and dyed it bright red. I donít think people like it that much, but for once, I love it.
I know I couldíve managed, but I just couldnít get myself to go. I hate feeling so helpless, incompetent, and pathetic. And just from two staph infections on my thigh. Iím not incapacitated or debilitated; Iíve always been very resilient. But I couldnít get myself to work today and Iím disgusted with myself for it.
Iíve decided not to blame the limp, the necessity for sweatpants, or even the pain. Iíve decided to blame the stress of one thing after another building up around me. Iíd rather be crippled by something mental than physical.
What does that say about me?
I feel I have no right to bitch, but truth is, I totally suck at life right now. Iím broke, falling unacceptably behind in class, burning myself constantly (last night it was a cookie sheet), failing in my love life, gaining weight, irritable, infectious, nauseas, and without full mobility (stupid leg).
I know some people have it much worse, but I legitimately feel like shit. Mostly because I know whatís driving me mad are products of my own doing, things Iím capable of altering.
But I have no motivation to change anything. I think that makes me a bad person.
I am one of those girls. The girl that hangs with all the boys. Whose friends are primarily male. Iím a ďguys girlĒ, always have been. Not a tomboy, per se, I donít like sports, I do my hair and wear make-up, but Iím not afraid to break a nail, get dirty, or climb a tree.
The past months Iíve become incredibly close with a new girlfriend. The first really good one Iíve had in years. And Iím making more female friends through her. I like it. Girls are a necessity Iíve been deprived of for too long.
Who says I canít dance?
Oh, right, everybody. Well, you know what, everybody? Piss off! I can dance! Just because I donít have ďrhythmĒ and when I gyrate itís more spasmodic than sexy does not mean my dancing abilities are nil. I can move, I can shake it, I can flip my hair around, wave my arms, and drag my hips from side to side. I donít believe I possess
rhythm- I feel totally one with the music.
I told my mom you said I canít dance. She agreed. Whatever, I move to the beat of my own drum
I like to venture to the bars every so often. Iíve got a bit of a drunk in me, but I NEVER go with intention of meeting anyone.
Last night B and I got dolled up and took to Newport. For once, I
to get hit on at a bar. Dream Street was lame, Gallagherís was lame (no one checking me out), last attempt, The Harp. We started dancing and within 15 minutes drunk guy in
shirt stumbles upon us with cute friend in toe.
Cute friend and I spent the rest of the night together.
Heís been thinking about me. Said it straight out. We didnít have sex that night (came close, though) and heís been thinking about me. Part of me wonders if heíd be thinking about me if we did have sex. Or if heís only thinking about me in anticipation of coitus. This is what I hate about men, you can never trust them, never believe them, always second guessingÖ
But I like this one. Please donít let him turn out an asshole too.
Iím going to try to withhold for as long as it takes for him to
We agreed to go out Wednesday, but the stars brought us together sooner. Fate? B, K, and I were going to do a nightcap at BJís, but B convinced me to go to the steakhouse where you bartend. Why I agreed, I donít know. I was coming from the end of my second longest day of the week clad in white wifebeater and messy pigtails with what remnants of make-up I had left quickly fading. But I went. You came over, said ďhello beautifulĒ and kissed me. We met only three days ago. The looks on their faces were priceless.
I picked you up for breakfast at Antique Row Cafť. You: Denver omelet, me: vegetable scramble. We drank our coffee, you talked about your childrenís cook book idea. Bill paid, we each swallowed one of my percocets and went to the least scummy bar I know open at 12:30pm. You: long island, me: two Jameson and cokes. We dropped $11 on the jukebox ($6 for the whole
album) and played seven games of pool. This has been perhaps the best afternoon of my life. Why do you come into town the same week I finally get a date?
Why is it as soon as you get used to the idea of being single someone has to step in and mess it all up?
In 22 years, this was maybe the second date Iíve ever been on. It had all the elements. He picked me up, had a restaurant choice premeditated, paid, (insert other activities), and drove me home.
I am not the girl guys take out on dates. I am the girl that hangs out with them at their house or meets them at a bar. This is SUCH a refreshing change. I could get used to this.
Today my grandmother referred to my mother as ďher daughterĒ. You would think thatís not a big deal, but it was all I could do to not drop my jaw when I heard it. My grandmother has absolutely no terms of endearment for her daughter, only ever refers to her by first name. They donít get along too well, my mother always vying for her approval, my grandmother always disapproving of her. I canít remember my grandmother ever even telling my mother she loved her. But today, ďmy daughterĒ, it almost sounds proud.
Happy Thanksgiving. Iím grateful for my mom.
I was trying to hold out. I had it set in my head that the next guy I get involved with I was going to wait until weíre serious. But like my other failed attempts of ďholding outĒ, the opportunity was just too good to pass up. Iím all about unique and/or dramatic firsts. With T it was in the middle of a star covered field in Presidio Park. This was in an old Christian manís shed on a metal table while Christmas music played. Not as romantic as the prior, but hot as hell! I will ALWAYS remember this.
I have realized that my entries on here are more a chronicle of my lovelife than anything else. I donít have witty/intelligent/deep/philosophical insights; I just have what happens to me on a daily basis- centered around hormones. Iím almost nervous that my romantic redundancy insinuates an absorption in trivial, fleeting matters. There are more important things in the world, right? I feel like I should be writing about more profound things and because Iím not, Iím wasting my talents.
But when it comes down to it, this is what interests me. Human relationships.
And sex. Because I donít get enough.
I havenít written a poem in awhile. I used to be quite the little poet- my younger years spent in reflection, inspiration, and analysis. These days I think mostly of things I have to do, Irish whisky, the way he touched me, what I canít afford, and the next time Iíll get to drink Irish whisky I canít afford while forgetting what I have to do and succumbing to the way he touches me.
I once wrote with wisdom and observation beyond my years. Today I write primarily for the sake of dumping my thoughts. Not fit for external consumption.
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