tired

Two days before school starts.

A month ago, my friend Ann and I baked a cake in the shape of a cheeseburger for our friend's birthday.

I have no funny or goofy symbols for this new season.

sleepy.

[Bon Iver+ general exhaustion= sublimity.]

um.

i'm a little embarrassed at how negative i've been these past months. i don't know how to let my emotions out. i used to not feel them, and now i know them for what they are and they render me helpless.

my home life isn't the best, or at least, it's not what i wish it were. there are a lot of transgressions of space and etiquette, two things i do not handle well. and instead of acting constructively, i have become exhausted, overly sensitive, and vaguely passive-aggressive. i hate this about myself.

that stress has climbed into work and taken hold, as well. aside from the completely unmet financial needs, of course.

i don't know what to do. is it enough to know that i have fallen into these tendencies? is being aware of them changing them? or do i have to conduct an overhaul of my entire being?

i feel, increasingly, that a mass purging is necessary. some kind of rite of purification for myself and my head. it's becoming a need. but there is no time, not when i have to frantically sweep everything into planning for school and work more than i sleep.

sigh.

i should go to bed. cross your fingers that i actually get to fall asleep this time. noise, blissful irritating noise....

The bruise on the inside of my left wrist is my favorite feature.

To make myself feel better, I am trying to bring myself back twelve hours.

I was in this limpid daze, singing "Reflection" (Belleruche, amazing, amazing) while lying on the floor. Was there because I can't breathe inside my apartment without inhaling stress.

Frustration and annoyance give way to resentment, and I'm so fucking negative lately. I can't stand it. I don't want to be this person, but right now I am, and it's so weak that it kills me.

Singing, I tried to soothe myself on his floor. I was only falling further into that fog when he came back from whatever he was doing and somehow drew me into the other room. Whenever I'm forced to look at myself through his eyes, I can't imagine I and she are the same person. Nothing matters, not my flaws, not my illness, not the constant paranoia that it will come back, not my fears, not my insecurities, not my way of picking apart every aspect of myself to be certain it's wrong....
We share this perfect synchronous addiction to each other. The second his hands fall on me it's like I'm both myself and him at once, and I don't give a shit if that sounds like the immature version of romance because it's real and it's mine.

No one else has to get it, because they didn't stay up until four in the morning laughing after making each other pass out. Somehow it gives me comfort to believe that no one can touch this. No one can have it, no one can make it walk away.

I've never had this before.

also also wic

i think that the smell of booze on someone's breath is contemptible and the least attractive thing imaginable.

it smells like rotted meat rolled in fruit

J is fucking cheesy.

Oh, the snobberies escaping my mental lips....

By now I have typed and deleted many things, telling myself not to be uncharitable, etc. etc.

But truthfully, I am uncharitable. I think the sort of behaviour currently exhibited is incredibly low-class, and the constant lack of manners doubly so.

Etiquette and morals may be related, but they are still very, very different. Religion, one of man's "moral compasses," is in no way universal. But two people from separate countries and cultures would still greet each other with respect, be it a bow, a salaam, or a handshake.

So fuck that.


S"cupcake"B: Rock 'n roll. Wrap some barbed wire around your fist. It's called the stinger.

another letter

Dearest Friend,
You are kind of an idiot. Not really, and I don't mean to say that I look down upon you, because I don't, but you can't pick up on my signals of need and that pisses me off.

I came to you, begging you for comfort, and you could only tell me that you hurt physically. I told you I needed you and you punched a wall
i really hope you don't have a scar but if you did i would kiss it
and made me cry harder. I hate my home right now so I run to yours. I need you sometimes.

Those sometimes when I close off and can't recover, you need to break me out of it, show me with force that this is real and you still mean it.

Why don't you know intuitively, the way I know these things about you?

love, and you know that i do,

i was really glad that i actually said these things to him.
i didn't know until i said them, and i couldn't say them until we both lost it a little.

to begin

One of the runes on my arm means "warrior."

It's the first one I think of, the first one I list off to people, and the first one I inscribed when I wrote the blessing.

The warrior spirit is something to contemplate.
I don't know that I have it.


I wish that I did.
In those dreams I write of [ofwhichIwrite], I am always able, strong, brave, fighting.

When was the last time I fought against anything? When have I ever felt that confident power flowing through me when I wasn't on a windy precipice or in a bed?

Why do these dreams make me wish I could change? Why do so many waking moments do the same?

d.

I want to call d. and wish at him that he were here, in this less-than-dank pit of mine, just because there could be something in his answer that lets me know he wants it too. I want to see that look in his eyes, that too-bright gleam like blue suns, the indistinguishable curl to the lips that means he has Plans. I want to let him know that it's okay that he's got a lot going on, that he needn't spare so many moments and attentions for me, that it's okay to ignore me once in a while.

And yet, referencing the past again, he is the only person who has ever given me his undivided attention, the only one who has said and meant and proven that I matter to him. I know that it is not simply tact that keeps him from letting me know what he sets above me in importance.

I blush at my audacious sentimentality (Remind me to pray that no-one I know reads this.) as I start to note that I know from his hands what living marble must feel like, only better.

In my dreams, however, he is never there. Almost never. When I dream, the people I love are always allegorical figures of some sort, and I frequently wear greyish-blue, and I can never find him. There is almost no sign of him in my subconscious, as far back as I can remember. I can dredge up childhood dreams that say twolettersafterh. I knew that the whisperer in Portuguese who woke me unsatisfied was e. My sister and I had the same dream about my brother on Halloween, and it sort of happened. But he is nowhere to be found.

The post-dawn madness of me wonders if that means I don't really know him, and recalls that I can never properly explain him to someone else, that I can't possibly encapsulate him in words and give him off to a stranger because there is too much and so much of it bends into me.

The tiniest corner of me is terrified that he ignored me twice, and the larger angles are entirely too contemptuous to answer.

c.

My fucking cat is incomprehensible. She mews and cries and yowls and meows all the time, and sometimes I know she's "talking" and I get it, but she's every bit as temperamental (see: moody, pissy, ridiculous) as her owner and it's getting a little silly.

Furthermore, she jumps far too high.

[Give me a break, I'm alphabet-themed here.]

b.

[omitted]

a.

I must be secretly arrogant.

You can tell a person it's all right to read their most personal publishings, but that doesn't necessarily make it so. I should not have done that. It wasn't so much reading as scanning piecemeal, but I.... There are some things that are simply too personal. It makes me angry to have done it, especially since I would never have had the courage or openness to share such a thing of mine with him.1 It wasn't meant for me. I wish I hadn't, for that exact reason. Yet here I am, with my nose inches from my MacBook-- because I, in my natural state, am pretty nearly blind-- feeling uselessly lonely and completely stupid and overly fond of adverbs.

And writing. On the Internet. For what reason... I can't define.

The fan that I constantly have going in this bedroom that gets the best and the hottest sunlight a basement ever got is blowing tiny fibres of hair into my face. In my dreams, they are apricot colored and I am never alone.

Fuck.

I want to call d. (see below) and wish at him that he were here, in this less-than-dank pit of mine, just because there could be something in his answer that lets me know he wants it too.

I knew it would happen, that it would flow into me and meld and mix with other pains, compare itself to them, and stew. Raw and overdone and not enough and too much and not mine at all.