Trust me, I don’t get it either. Whatever this is. It sucks. I want him to be something he isn’t. It’s asking a lot of him. But things used to be different. Didn’t they? He’d be sweet and I’d be…well, okay, a total bitch, but that’s besides the point. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t. I think I want too much from him and it’s…not good.

He’s asleep. I keep trying to get him to wake up and stay awake. It feels lacking, the way he just passes out after a while, the way he’s limp and bats my hands and head away when I try to touch him. He compared sleeping to being cryogenically frozen. Why would you want to be cryogenically frozen if all the time I have with you is four more days, four more days that you might have work, four more days and then I have work. It makes me feel like he doesn’t appreciate the time we have together, a hypothesis he will completely reject. He loves me. But, he sleeps when we can be doing something else.

I just want to be cuddled with, possibly loved more openly than just saying “I love you.” every once in a while when I accuse him of not. Maybe I’m just a needy bitch who demands too much from him. I probably am. I want my relationship to be the kind that’s practically lifted the pages of some cheesy romance novel. I want him to be something he’s not. That’s it. That’s it. I don’t know what it is, but he was different before. He cared. I guess? Now, he really just farts, picks his nose, roll over and sleep some more. Is it sad? That my day with him can be characterized as such? Sleeping, fucking, farting. The farts, aside from the fact that they are smelly as shit, just bothers me. He does it all the time. Regardless of situation or context and just enters into this fit of giggles every time he does it. It’s not hilarious, because I have to smell it and he has no problem with the smell. It’s not enjoyable. It’s crass and annoying, quite frankly. When I’m looking for a bit of intimacy, I get immaturity. And when I comment on his farts, his lack of, I don’t know, intimacy for a lack of better words, he retracts, like a turtle or some sort of strange snail that curls up when provoked and either starts hurting himself or crawling away, sleeping on the floor or some form of self pity or rejection or hurt. IT’S ABOUT FUCKING FARTS. He gets upset about the simplest things. How am I NOT supposed to be slightly UPSET when he FARTS everywhere, all the time. And it smells like SHIT. Honest to god, it smells like SHIT. My room, my sheets, my bed. He just has to. He just has to. It’s not like it’s even a big problem. Somehow, my discontent with this relationship is manifesting itself in the form of flatulence. I fart, sure. We all fart. Or, there’d be something wrong with our digestive system. But, why, why, why….

I don’t feel loved. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I feel incredibly loved, incredibly close to him. But, other times (like now) I feel like there’s a wall and it’s stopping me from feeling what I want to feel and from getting what I want to get.

I want him to touch my face, stroke my cheeks and kiss me passionately, in the darkness of my bedroom. I want him to make love to me slowly, sensitively. I want to feel him, feel him alive and close and with me. Someday….Maybe?

Right now, he’s sleeping next to me, snoring gently, lying on my stuffed toys. I don’t know. The more I write, the more I love him, the more I remember why I love him. He’s so vulnerable and exposed. There’s a strange sadness in his face that makes me love him. I like it when he’s sad. I like the face he makes.

I haven’t written anything in a long time. There hasn’t been turmoil in my life? No. I’ve just been telling him everything. And stuff like this I can’t tell him. No. It’s about him. You don’t complain to the offender. He’s not really offending anything either. Mood swings? Or, sudden realizations? When he doesn’t reach for me when I turn away, my heart hurts. When he leaves me, my heart hurts. Yet, I’m not satisfied when he’s around. The trouble with me, the trouble with women. We want more when there isn’t more to be had.

I can’t sleep, but he’s always sleeping. I love the night. I love staying up and listening to cars pass by on the street. I love watching amber boxes of light trace arcs across my bedroom ceiling. I love the melancholic glow of my computer monitor, pale, blue and impersonal, fall on my fingers, my sleeves, my desk. I love how alien and alone the world feels at night, how the dark holds a mystery so deep and strong, thick like a sweet, intoxicating nectar. How I am drawn to all this. How he sleeps through all of this. All of the beauty that I hold so deep, so close.

I’m not a morning person. On the bright side, he’s crushing my stuffed teddy with his head. I have to rectify this. Hold on.  It’s been fixed. The bear has been rescued. I think…everything will be alright. Sometimes, I just get sad. Am I pregnant? Am I?!

I just can’t study. I just don’t want to touch my calc book. Ugh, I’m gonna fail that test.

Alright:

Mando

History

Calc

Bio

Those four things. WORK ON THEM. Later…

So…yeah, hopefully bio works out okay. I should buy a book or something.

I do all of this stupid shit and it just makes me feel worse on the inside. I’m such a hypocrite. I know I am and that’s the worse part. Please, just let me go.

He just broke my heart and it hurt. I don’t even get why it’s broken because he still ‘loves’ me. It just feels so weird now. I would have liked it so much better if he just said nothing.

Rephrase, it really fucking hurt. I end up weeping a lot…

I’ll do after 12, if he comes back after 12 that is.

I’m just…annoyed. Seriously. What the hell is with this shit…

I don’t want platonic love, or a little above platonic love. He doesn’t even love. He just wants me to be there for him, to hold his hand and be cute and cuddle and comfort him and listen to him and care about him. I mean, it’s not like I don’t want any of that either, but there’s a flipside of the coin, MY damn side of the coin. What, did I imagine all of this shit? I thought he really loved me. REALLY. Like…what the fuck kind of people do I end up with? Why do I always, always always pick the retarded, fucked, weird ones? How do you think those wives feel when they find out their husband is gay? What kind of shit is that? Even Rosa gets Joe back at the end, so what about me?

He won’t ever look at me romantically? Why the fuck didn’t he bother pointing out before we started dating? Before it got serious and he shoved his penis in me? Did it not occur to him, EVER, that…that…FUCK ALL OF YOU. FUCK FUCK FUYCK FUCK.

I hate this shit so much. Why…

The more I look at this crap, the more I hate it. He doesn’t want me to hate him, but how can I not?

Clearly, we are incompatible. This is what I told him. This is what I said. And he said, no, no, it’ll work out. WORK OUT HOW?! LIKE THIS! THIS IS GREAT! I FEEL LIKE SUCH SHIT ABOUT MYSELF I WANT TO TEAR MY GUTS OUT.

And where is…he has class and I have break. I want to go see him. And to hug him and kiss him and sleep with him and he doesn’t want any of that from me.

I quit. I really just want to quit.

Life just annoys me. I can’t do anything right. I can’t get into college. I can’t loose weight. You feel inferior? I make you feel inferior? I laugh at the comment.

She doesn’t remember a thing. Maybe it’s better that way. She doesn’t really care. Her movements are quick and lifeless. She kills people like Mozart composes music, like Louis Armstrong plays the trumpet. It’s a god given talent.

So, yeah, bored, have to leave for Flushing, soon. Need to find out if there is bio test. Goddamnit if we have one.

No one knows if we have a test or not, but I know that I’m retarded. Well, at least I can get to be an officer. I’m trying not be upset about this. It’s difficult. Okay, yeah, I have a lower IQ than Jeffrey. Lol, what does this mean? Actually, I’m just sorta pissed my IQ is low in general, I’m clumped together with stenographers and nurses and post graduate students, while he’s considered a genius and a possible Nobel prize winner. Maybe I’m just slow. Profound mental retardation.

I have no profound abilities. I can’t draw. I can’t write. I can’t even score high enough on a fucking IQ test. And you feel bad for yourself because you don’t have friends? God. The grass is always greener on the other side.

I am scared of a lot of things, like applying to colleges and getting my SAT scores back, like

You wake up morning, like every morning, only to ask yourself: why am I awake? Why did I even bother waking up? There’s nothing, save for school, which compels you to wake. Not the crowds trying to push into the subway, not your mother and her coffee grinder and morning news, not even yourself, because you know you want to go back to sleep. So, why do it?

It’s hard to write about things I believe in, mostly because I don’t really believe in anything. I’ve already written two of these and a third one is just difficult.

I am waiting on the corner of Lafayette and 8^th Street. I gaze east because I know he’s coming from St. Mark’s. I am carrying a bag of Sun Chips from the Walgreens and a bottle of ice tea.

He waves at me from across the street, awkwardly, and I see the oil stains on the brown paper bag he has in the other hand.

“Why did you buy more food?” He asks, exasperated.

“I felt like Sun Chips.” I shrug and give him a helpless look. It’s hard to say no to Sun Chips.

He shakes his head, awkwardly. His mother always wants to cut his hair, which, I think, is just ridiculous because her haircuts make him look like a pineapple.

We walk down the street together, towards my house, to give my mother her friend fries. My mother, on the other hand, always wants him to run errands for her. Jeffrey, go buy some McDonalds. Jeffrey, go buy some Duraflame logs. Jeffrey, go buy some fries from that place on St. Mark’s.

And, he never objects. Okay, he says and waddles out of the house to get some logs, or fries, or McDonalds. Sometimes I think that saying no to any of my mother’s silly requests would be just too awkward for him.

My boyfriend is an awkward person, but it is all a cute sort of awkward. He likes awkward things, he talks about awkward things, and he does awkward things. Some people find him a little bit creepy, which is entirely understandable because sometimes he is also a little awkwardly creepy. But, then again, if he weren’t, I wouldn’t be in love with him.

I push away the large, uncooperative Venetian blinds and twist open the little knobs that fasten my windows closed. I stick my head out far enough to see the street below. He is waving, ear buds in hand and an awkward smile on his face.

I’m supposed to feel happy for him, I know, but sometimes I just can’t. It’s like your teammates breaking in speech. How are you supposed to really congratulate them when you’ve failed so miserably?

Some days you just feel like shit. I gain weight instead of loosing weight. Everyone is skinny. I don’t get how any one thing can make you feel so much like shit.

He hasn’t been gone for more than an hour and I already miss him. The thought of sleeping in my bed alone frightens me. I am no longer accustomed to this silence. Without his voice over the headset or his presence here next to me, abysmal loneliness overwhelms me. I wonder if he has boarded the train yet, or not. It is nearing three.

I cannot resist the pull of sleep. To enter the world dreams alone, numbed I am from the thought of waking up without him. Will he call me soon?

Watchmen is a powerful story. Can’t stop thinking about it. Talk like Rorschach. Few words. Blunt. Characters memorable. Story convoluted. Worth re-reading.

Sometimes, from the things he says, I’m not sure what I feel for him, pity or sadness. The more I know about him, the more I love him, good or bad, or just plain terrible. All of this little anxiety, all the little things he does to try to remedy his situation, the fact that his life actually has vivid undercurrents, ideals that govern his life. No, not even ideals, just ideas, driving forces behind his actions, intent, something, like a magnet that guides each little iron pellet into curves on paper, that motivate all of his actions, his justifications for everything…is it more like awe? Bewilderment? Astonishment that someone can actually live with purpose, but a purpose so simple and elementary? Something like that…

If you think about it, no one wins. We’re all losing to something, someone. It’s inevitable, it’s just how you end up dealing with the loss and how you earn your next victory.

Omg omg omg omg omg I’m gonna spazz and kill someone. Oh my dear god. That was the most beautiful, most epic chapter I’ve read so far. He’s a god. That’s it, pure and simple. You don’t fuck with gods. I’m gonna ohhhh myyy GOD…

They need to have sex after this. After he calms the fuck down and like, kills envy. They need to kill Envy. Oh god. Oh god….

I actually just can’t quit. I can’t, I can’t, not when it’s so GOOD like this. If I were a crack addict, there would be no hope for me, at all. AT ALL. I’d just…Roy is sex. Roy is agod. ROY IS GOD. I SUPPORT ROY FOR 2010!!!

God. -ly. So….fucking…epic….

Yeah, dude, like…..royai is just around the corner. It’s so fucking close I can smell that shit with my hands. That sentence made no sense. But oh jesus Christ. I’m going to spazz, die, have a heart attack. Royai Royaaiiiiiiiiii I love everything!! Oooh, god.

Well, I’m really hoping Envy dies. It’s about FUCKING time. I mean, how AWESOME is Roy? Like, seriously. He pwned two homunculus. Like THAT. Snap snap die bitch. How good is this shiiittt?!?!?

I’d devote the rest of my life to this man if it were possible. I’d dress Jeffrey up like Roy and just fuck him.

If he ever finds out how obsessed I am with Roy, it’s going to hurt him like crazy. But good god, Roy’s like sex. Seriously.

Granted, I’m dead scared of that look in his eyes. I hope he calms down. I’m so scared and so excited. Another month. Holy crap.

Royai is so good, I’m going to cry. They need to come out with this shit faster. When this series is done, I’m going to buy every single volume and carry it home, in like five different languages too. Oh god.

Every once in a while, I miss him like crazy; I’d hear a song on the radio and listen to the lyrics and hear him in every word. And, every once in a while, even though I don’t need it anymore, I long for him arms, for his face, for him, for him, him, him, to be right here.

Every once in a while…

And that one thought, brought on by a word or two, a sentiment or two, drives me crazy. Crazy. Completely fucking crazy. Every little inch of my mind is filled with just him.

Some days I wish things were different, not that I don’t appreciate what I have now. Some days, I just regret not doing a few things that I should’ve gathered the courage to do. Words come to me so easily. Across a sea of letters, I stand on my lonesome island and wait for your ship. Never, not once, will I call out for your attention to come and rescue me.

I’ve gone crazy from the moment I met you.

And I need you so much.

Truer words have never been said.

I’m crazy. I miss him.

I shouldn’t.

Goddamn, I should’ve, I should’ve. I didn’t. I’m going to regret that one little thing for the rest of my goddamn life.

Christ, Meyer. Lol

If only you knew this shit, you’d get a good laugh out of it.

I hate things for a reason, you know. A fucking reason. I hate people, I hate school, fucking working…my teeth, my life….there’s just so much shit and I don’t want to deal with any of it. Why can’t it just be alright sometimes…why can’t you just run away with me? Do you see why I hate this so much…what is the point of staying if people hate you….

I’m tired. Really, really tired.

Yeah, pretty much, I hate everything. I hate my mother. I hate my boyfriend. I hate pieces of myself. I hate my fat, it’s terrible. I bet you it hates me too. I hate my teeth. I know they hate me because half of them aren’t even there anymore. I hate just living, breathing, fucking cellular respiration and all that crap. It’s all just crap. Names, dates, people, crap, crap, crap. I can’t spend two seconds of my life re-evaluating my own crappy existence without some blaring through my non-existent French doors that barely close, ever (I live in a fucking closet), “Are you gonna go?” I’ll go on my own time, when I’d done with being sad and weeping and hating, I’ll go when I feel inclined to go, I’ll go when I’m already considerably late, but no, I will not go because you’ve asked me to go. I will not do what is good for me because only you know what’s good for me. And, if you tell me I’m old enough to know what’s good for me, I will tell you no. No one knows what is good for them. You are all in denial. And, I hate every single fucking one of you and if I had the chance, I’d a) kill myself so I will no longer have to spend my life looking at you, or b) kill every single one of you and feel quite satisfied with my accomplishments and document the extinct of the human race in a shitty history textbook, c) shit in everyone’s face.

I like that last one.

She’s always, like, how much she isn’t like grandma. She’s the same, and she’s worse. She nags, at least grandma gets the idea and leaves.

Klondike Summer

He sells ice cream, she knows that much, at the street corner by the park. The sun is strong, so he wears a red baseball cap. He is a Mets fan, how will they ever get along? Children, big and small, crowd around him, dollar bills clutched in their hands like their own personal fortunes. He passes a rainbow colored cone to one of the kids.

During the school year, he sits in the back corner of her history class. He doesn’t talk much, but he knows all the answers when Mr. Rubbel calls on him. Who was the first king of England? How long was the Hundred Years War? Explain Wilson’s fourteen points. He knows everything.

So, what does she do? She sits, in her blue summer dress-the one with daisies on it-and

I’m never naming my weird ass stories ever again. I’m really, really, really fucking hungry-but not! Not, at the same time. I’m consumed by and lacking hunger, at the same time.

My heart is about to explode. The little sounds you make over the microphone. I know you but I do. I don’t know what I’m doing with you, but I know. Security, love, contention, peace, I don’t want drama. I want apple pie with a dollop of whipped on top and your hand on my shoulder.

I want to feel your lips, warm and wet, greeting mine. Your big, calloused, scarred hands, your fingers, curling around mine, I want to feel just for a moment used and loved. I want to feel your awkwardly cut hair, the scrape and sound of black, straw like strands, against my forehead in the morning. I want…warmth.

I’m tired. Old. Shrively? Is that a word? Shrivelly?

More member activities!

STOP WITH THE WORM, STOP WITH THE WORM. STOOOOP ITT WITH THE VELVET WORM.

Life hates me, god hates me, god laughs at me, my sports teams never win. No, really, life hates me. I’m too tired to even curse and yell and SCREMA AND FUCK IT WAS FOUR FUCKING POINTS YYOU FUCKIGTN SONS OF BITCHES! POFIUOIR!! FOUR!!!! FUCKING POINTS!!!!!! You let me win Monopoly, but you can’t like Kurt Warner win the damn Super Bowl? YOU FUCKING PIECE OF NEGRO SHIT YOU!

I’m racist. And, I’m angry. Larry Fitzgerald you have my sympathies and my love. I’ll add the Cardinals to my small, growing, list of sports teams that never win. I’ll start watching hockey. I will. And they won’t win either.

Ketchup Mustard
Salt Pepper
Sour Cream Onion
Fish Chips
Peanut Butter Jelly
Mac Cheese
Cereal Milk
Cookies Cream
Mint Chocolate Chip
Tortilla Chips Dip
Nachos Cheese
Peas Carrots
Cheeseburgers Fries
Pancakes Syrup
Meat Potato
Sushi Wasabi
Noodles Soup
Gin Tonic
Spaghetti Meatballs
Martini Olives
Sandwich Pickles
Chickpeas Lentil
Cumin Coriander
Ice Cream Soda
Hotdog Bun
Buffalo Wings Blue Cheese
Vinegar Olive Oil
Lemon Chicken
Beef Broccoli
Bacon Egg
Mashed Potatoes Gravy
Popcorn Butter
Crepes Nutella
Turkey Cranberry
Bread Butter
Rice Beans
Apples Oranges
Pasta Sauce
Lettuce Tomato
Aeronautics

I’m over the Cardinals. There’s always next year. I really hope I don’t fail English. I hope it’ll be okay. I’m no longer going to think about it. Alright. Shut up. STOP. STOP. OKAY. SHHHH.

O-o;

I wonder what it says about music when Pandora plops Nickelback next to Avril Lavigne.

Swallowing hurts.

I’m sick at heart, as always. Hormones suck.
You know, when I was little, I wanted to be an astronaut. Generically childish, but, hell, it seemed wonderful at the time. It gave me a strange sort of thrill, a shiver down my spine, to think about reaching out and feeling the cool, black marble of space against my palm. A strange sort of thrill to imagine nebulae, dressed in wispy, diaphanous robes of stars, a strange sort of thrill to realize that space is empty, that space is big, that space is a never-ending void where the light of my tiny planet Earth goes to die, where the light of my tiny planet Earth is reborn anew, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, in the colors of another world. I’d cut the cable anchoring me and drift and drift and drift, past the valleys and mountains of the cosmos, past the milky lakes of galaxy, past the dying dwarfs and the supernovas. Space would be my grave and silence, my requiem.

It’s nice to be a kid because you’re allowed these kinds of dreams. You’re allowed to sit with your mouth half open, staring at something. You’re allowed a canvas and some paint, your creativity and your imagination, you’re allowed all of these things like you’re allowed toy trucks and Barbie’s. But, once you get to that age, that age when people start thinking you’re retarded because you sit with your mouth open (and draw with crayons), the dreams stop. And, also because there are no stars in Manhattan, there are only helicopters. Dreams are little kid stuff, when you grow up, you have to deal with grown up stuff, like doing the dishes, taking out the garbage, learning how to drive, learning how to cook, learning how to do your own taxes (someone forgot learning how to learn, a small task most people seem desperately incapable of understanding), but most importantly, learning how to run the rat race. There are no dreams in Manhattan, only Lexington Avenue stretching south to the tip of the island. Concrete would be my grave and the closing bell, well, it’d be the closing bell.

On yet another childish note, dark chocolate is only dark, according to the Europeans, if the chocolate contains 35% cacao solids. According to the Americans, who have no real standard for such things, dark chocolate needs only to contain 15% chocolate liquor to maintain sufficient darkness. The real question: Is my American Dream…dark? When you stop running the race, what do you taste? White chocolate-a misnomer if I ever saw one because the thing contains no cacao whatsoever? Or, just pure cacao powder, bitter and raw-the kind of stuff that smacks you a couple times to make sure you’re tuned in to the proper episode of Life? Or, am I just talking about something completely pointless?

I mean, when you’re reading something like Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener, its like life just handed you lemons and insisted, if not pleaded, for you to make lemonade. All right, I make the lemonade. The little voice inside my head can’t help but quip every two or three seconds, “Look! Look! He wrote Moby Dick! He’s gotta have a point! Something real deep and philosophical! Look! Look!” So, I look. The thing about classics (and, by default, the people who write those things) is they’re expected to have a point. They’re supposed to teach you something nice and important and warm, to fuel the intense flames of your imagination, to keep you going at night when you’re down and out (though, really, ice cream does the same thing). Why else would you have them? Entertainment? A thousand page tome on the finicky details of Victorian courtship? Say hello to my trash can. And, when you read a classic, you’re expected to get something out of it. You’re expected to take away with you this wonderful understanding of something new. You’re expected to enlightened! But, what if I’m confused? Or, bored? Or, just plain don’t care. Am I any dumber than someone who enjoyed Pride and Prejudice? Am I any less worthy than someone who loved The Great Gatsby? Am I just a kid, sitting my mouth open, if I couldn’t even get through The Great Gatsby because life demanded my attention elsewhere? Well, Life, thank you for the lemons. I’m going to enjoy my lemonade, without the added sugar.

Reading a classic like Bartleby the Scrivener, for example, is just like living the American dream. Examine, for a moment, the conditions under which I found my copy of Bartleby the Scrivener. It was Halloween, of the year Two Thousand and Eight and people down the hall were singing the Village People. I’m late as usual, hardly unexpected. In an attempt to get into the Halloween spirit, I’ve somehow bothered to waste my time and squeeze myself into a costume. Upon arriving on the sixth floor of the pasty colored building that is my high school (high school really ought to be a synonym for hell) and waddled down the hall to the last room before the Hudson Staircase, I was greeted by Mr. Murray (whose name I’m quite sure I’m spelling wrong)! What a vision he was indeed, a number 2 pencil in hand and the attendance sheet in the other, in the place of my usual English teacher. Dressed, as usual, in non-descript sweater and pants, Mr. Murray beckoned me towards a seat, with what curiosity I took my seat. Immediately I was told to grab a hideously red book off a cart. What I’ve never truly understood about books in the public school system is that they all come in this awful, smelly, deteriorating form. The actual cover design of the book is shrunken about an inch on all sides and printed in the middle, with bright and often disagreeably colored border. And, on the back, in large, black Serif print exists a blurb of, usually, irrelevant information. The pages are brown and smelly and awful to the touch. In my copy of the book, all some thirty odd pages of Bartleby the Scrivener were happily detached from the actual binding, making for a handy portal addition of larger, already portable object. I thought it was quite charming. Then, I proceeded not to read it until class the next week.

If a classic is classic and should be taken seriously, why in the name of god did it arrive in my hands in such conditions? If the American dream is a dream of striking it rich, a dream of rising from the quagmire and cesspool of anonymous oblivion, a dream shared by men like Gatsy, shared by men like Bartleby, why is it nothing more than just a nightmare? Examine, for a moment, the conditions under which I found that my life had no meaning, in possibly all too metaphysical sense. I was sitting at a computer, some years ago, though not that many years ago because I haven’t lived many years to begin with. It suddenly occurred to me, as I ogled at why it was that computers worked, that I’ll never be able to find an answer. And, yes, I know, there are people out there who know how computers work. But, rather, the question is, why computers work? Why do I work? Why does my heart beat? Why do I write essays? Why do I even fit in the proper scope of the world? Why can’t I say, “I prefer not to,” and just not do something? The simple answer, and the short answer, is that I’ll end up like Bartleby, I’ll end up dead.

The amount of trouble I’m having with an English essay really just makes me wonder where the hell authors get their inspiration. Do they just plop down next to their typewriters and word processors and let their fingers run wild? And Melville said, “Let there be Moby Dick!” And, born was another classic, one to toss into the flames of high school English curriculums, one to fuel centuries of imaginations. Christ, Moby Dick was about a whale and Bartleby the Scrivener was about a scrivener.

The world isn’t a patient place. It rushes people, rushes people into things they don’t like and never wanted to do. It makes people write essays for class at four in the morning. No one likes that.

This essay isn’t fun. The American dream isn’t fun. It’s a relic of the past.

The back of my head is itchy, it’s persistent and annoying and I’ve been scratching at it for a while.

Bartleby, the Scrivener, quit life. Slowly but surely, he steps out of the world of the living and into the world of the dead. However, the world is an impatient and rather pragmatic creature, eventually leaving Bartleby behind in his resignation. Only on an act of charity, and possible nuisance, does his employer, an unnamed lawyer, come to retrieve him, to attempt to coax him out of his grave. In his simple minded ignorance, the lawyer fails to provide Bartleby with the simplest of all charities, understanding and sympathy. Instead, he showers upon Bartleby more values of the material world Bartleby so aptly abandons, illustrating the fatal flaw of the American dream. Thus, Bartleby succumbs to life and is granted the ultimate sanctuary of death.

In one of the last exchanges between Bartleby and the lawyer, Bartleby declares that the job of a sales clerk is too confining. To which the lawyer replies, “‘Too much confinement,” I cried, “why you keep yourself confined all the time!’” To these two different men, the word ‘confinement’ held different meanings. To Bartleby, perhaps the word takes on a much deeper, more metaphysical sense. He speaks not of the physical confinement that the lawyer remarks of, but to the inner confinement of a sales clerk, the repetition and the boredom of doing the same thing over and over again. What for Bartleby is an essential freedom is but a trivial absurdity to the lawyer.

The exchange continues: Bartleby remains adamant to stay as he currently is, preferably stationary. This enrages the lawyer, “‘Stationary you shall be then,” I cried, now losing all patience, and for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him fairly flying into a passion. “If you do not go away from these premises before night, I shall feel bound-indeed I am bound-to-to-to quit the premises myself!’” The world, obviously, being such that it is, has no place for a useless man. The lawyer attempts to either grant Bartleby a form of obsolete charity to console himself, or attempts to bypass this obstacle in the course of his life, like a stream bending around a huge bolder. What he does not understand, a fact that Bartleby never articulates, is the intense monotony of what he is rushing forward to greet. Bartleby’s strangeness is but a tired and weary defiance, a quiet anger, at the world that had neither shown him mercy, nor patience, but has only instead robbed him of his will to live. No form of charity will mend this hopelessness.

The last paragraph of the short story adds one essential piece to the Bartleby mystery: Bartleby’s previous station of work as a Dead Letters clerk. Dead letters, aside from having a potent connotation, as Melville writes, are “on errands of life, these letters speed to death.” Humanity, in an attempt to escape death, only rushes towards it, only rushes head first in the furnace of an unending hell. Bartleby realizes the futility of this American nightmare and simply kicks his own bucket. He did not quit his job at the Dead Letters Office, rather, he was removed. Adding to his place more despair and hopelessness that eventually drove him over the edge. The American dream is not a dream, it is a nightmare, a nightmare sugar coated for the unsuspecting that flock century after century to that golden door. What waits beyond those sacred doors save for a Bartleby ending? Perhaps not everyone is prone to “pallid hopelessness”, but everyone is prone to the relentless grind of life. The American dream is a poison for the world, opium for the capitalist masses. There is no cure, for “he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities.”

Though I am not prone to any sort of hopelessness, I often wonder whether or not it’d be worth it to join Bartleby in his preferential resignation. Shall I not prefer to write this essay? Shall I prefer not to live? Shall I quit life? How tempting an idea it is to drop everything, to stop typing, to cease to care about everything, and just sit silently upon a banister. Sadly, I’m kept running this rat race by a pesky instinct called survive. Against my own volition, I’m kept swimming against the tide by nothing but a preference to live. Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!

I want to cry sometimes, but I can’t. And, there’s a feeling, a little latch of feeling that comes up, creeps up and fills your entire body. It hurts and it’s strange. It’s like loneliness mixed in with sadness, with anxiety, like a cocktail of feelings without the alcohol, just raw bitterness. It’s sharp and tangy and wet and it tastes a little like a piece of me dying on the inside. No one knows, no one cares. Everyone’s too caught up with there crap. Garfinkel stuffing his face with a plate of food coming up from the fifth floor. Katerina and her weird vaginal cramping during SING practice. Jeffrey, how much I love Jeffrey, and his non-descript grunts over the phone…

If feels like the world’s abandoned me, or, in another sense, I’ve abandoned it.

I want to make up. But I don’t.

I’m scared. But I’m not.

What am I then?

Hurt? No, not even. Apathetically depressed about everything.

Is being content really that bad, so I need drama? Do I need happiness, do I need anything but you? I want to cry, to grab you, turn you around, bury my face in your chest and hide. But, you don’t love me anymore. Not the same, anymore, you’re distracted, distant, elsewhere. You need to sleep, you need to work. You need your life and you don’t have time for me anymore. Go, please. Go. Don’t worry about me. I’m sure you don’t worry about me. Forget about me. Forget about it. I want to end it, but I can’t because I’m still clinging to some sort of hope that it won’t end. Please. Don’t go.

He hasn’t called back. He hasn’t messaged me. It’s quiet and the quiet is eating away at me.

There’s a hole in my sock. I’m in my winter jacket, the periwinkle one that made Ehtesh look like a woman from the back. The periwinkle one with the dirty sleeves that’ll never wash out, browned and oil stained. The hole is strangling my big toe, I can feel where the edge of the fabric digs into flesh each time I move. There’s a hole in my pink sock, stained black and blue by my trousers, my shoes, the dirt on my floor, in the gym, perfumed by the pungent smell of my feet.

I can’t help it. Shut up.

I enjoy being tormented like this, all the time, all the time. I miss the pain, gathered up like a little ball, a rubber band ball of my problems, in the center of my chest. Like Iron Man’s heart reactor. If someone said that three years from now, you’d be long gone, I’d stand up and punch them out.

Come back. I love you. You bought me all these things, all the little Pooh’s, everything, come back. STOP UNDERLINING SHIT IN RED. FUCK OFF WORD. Damn everything. And the fucking capitalization.

I can’t get my toe out of that hole if I don’t use my hand. Damn. He’s not responding. I’m worried? Or, just lonely?

Obessess

Portfolio

My brain, simply put, aches. It feels like I’ve been away from everything for such a long time. I made a paper flower today. The whole paper ball-kusudama thing didn’t go as planned. I bought a binder today.

So tired, my brain feels like it’s going to explode. Touching it hurts. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Welcome to the Renaissance.

The sniper makes his home in the last remaining tower of a crumbling church. The church sits, as the architects had intended, above the town, the landscape dominated by its remaining spire. There is a hole in its arched and painted ceiling, letting in a small drizzle. Shallow pools of rainwater gather between the pews as the rain drums against the masonry.

The sniper sits in a damp corner of the tower, back against damp stone, eyes lingering on the damp sky. In one limp hand, he holds a half eaten piece of bread. His canteen lay open and almost empty by his side. His rifle, a scoped Karabiner, rests in the crook of his arm as he is in no rush to shoot. Consuming the rest of his bread, the sniper falls into a reverie.

The smell of freshly baked bread, warm and sensuous, fills his nostrils. Involuntarily, the sniper closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall. He sees his young wife by the oven. Her apron catches in a knot at her waist, her long lashes lower as she slices the loaf.

Artillery. Instantly, the sniper jolts up, knocking over his canteen as he raises the scope to his eyes, the rifle pointing out of the tower window. The reticle zooms from street to street, house to house. Another shell demolishes a bakery. The scope moves east. He spots a Sherman, emerging like a lumbering beast, from beyond a hill. Its treads raises the dust and sand of the road, the turret pointing upwards uselessly as it flattens out at the apex of the hill. Friendly artillery returns the greeting.

Enemy infantry snakes it way into the town, under the cover of tanks. A solitary Panzer fire at the advancing column, its shell sets the lead Sherman ablaze. A beacon, almost, of fire in the gray drizzle on the outskirts of town, a flaming symbol of hope no one has for the dying Reich. It simmers. The remaining ammunition in the tank explodes at interval.

He is a good sniper, not an excellent sniper, simply one that knows his M.O. If he lives to see the end of this war, they will not talk about him. They will not remember his name and his kill count. They will not remember his face. The sniper knows this; he is not in it for the glory. There is no glory. Glory dies in the face of reality, repelled by the gray, the smoke, the prickly August drizzle.

The tip of the black needle finds the helmet of an enemy; the sniper leads the target a little. He pulls in the trigger, the stock drives into his shoulder as he pulls back the bolt. The casing spins and clatters to the floor of the tower. He does not need to see the corpse of the man to know that he is dead. He is not arrogant, but he never misses. Ribbons of red mix with rainwater in the cobblestone streets below.

Shells whiz by with stark accuracy. The screams of men, of artillery, of dying vehicles, of rifles, of battle fill his ears. He listens carefully. It is a sound he forces himself to remember. It is a sound that keeps him awake at night, but he is not frightened of it. He will learn to embrace it. The bolt ejects another case.

When the sounds of battle dim and the gray sky gives way to darkness, when the smoldering wreckage of the Sherman ceases to burn, when death perfumes the town and rainwater in gutters are tinted pink, when the world is still—a moment of silence, when the sniper makes his home in the last remaining tower of a church, he does so with regret, he does so with remorse, he does so, regardless. How he loves wars.

I have nothing else left to do, and honestly, Old Spice can get annoying after a while.

So, realistically, I’m not really thinking about him anymore. Truthfully, I miss my days of being an obsessive lover, on the verge of tears at the mere thought of this…idea, this person, whatever you, which is really me, want to call it. Nowadays, I’m just in denial about it. Or, maybe I’ve become numb to my fits of emotional insurrection, but I still can’t bring myself to IM him when he’s online, despite my need to ask him, “So, how’s that phone line of yours holding up?” Maybe it’s the fear that he won’t answer that keeps my keyboard happy fingers at bay, but then again, it works against me that he’s been idle for the last eleven hours and counting.

Then, on the other hand, you have the other kid. Of course, even in retrospect, none of this will make sense to anyone, not even me. My feelings for him are a mess, a stew of lovely, incoherent feelings and whatevers, and god, the spell of Old Spice is really, really strong. You know, the other other one, meaning the one above, had a particular smell too. No shit Sherlock, of course I know, I was there the entire time, you flipping moron. Shut up, this really isn’t a time to be schiz. No? Really, now, you’re telling me after some ten odd years you hate me? No, fucking Sherlock Holmes, I’m telling you to fuck off.

Right, anyways, there’s no real purpose, his screen name on AIM just makes me giddy. I really shouldn’t be, because I swear I’ve gotten over it, though I feel I will never actually get over it, but, really, we ought to move along. He’s still idle and he’s still there.

I just hate…being almost there.

I really hate just being almost there.

So much, so much, so much…that it hurts as bad, if not worse, than a headache, than a stomach ache, than anything else…

Well, there, I did it, my wireless just hates me, so much…

So much…

I’ll wait, I’ll wait. I’ll sit it out. This is actually legitimately annoying. I’d like my internet back and functioning.

So, wait, what was that page loading then? Some godforsaken tease my wireless network has become? What in the name of god is this?!

Judgement

I am, now, very satisfied.

Among other things…

Light reading turned out to be very boring, so I’m gonna just go for it when the torrent’s done and hopefully my one point something gigs of a cracked game is going to work. If not, I cry. For now, I suffer the throes of a dying love, unfinished homework and a stomach ache.

The search function is inherently useless.

I’m satisfied, today, with almost everything that’s happened. Jeffrey, Ricky, moomoo, food, movies, TCGs, games, everything today feels exceptional. A very good day, in the fine words of my friend, a very good day. And by god, I hope it stays that way. Maybe it’s because I’m recovering from a week of feeling deeply unwell and sick on the inside. Maybe it’s because I cut prep and stayed home the entire day, rolling around and doing nothing. Maybe it’s because I shared a moment with Ricky Meyer and nothing awkward happened. Maybe it’s because I’m accepting the fact that I’m going to miss him and he’s going to stay a friend. Maybe it’s because YOU ARE AN INANIMATE FUCKING OBJECT! Maybe it’s because that all my college bound senior buddies aren’t going to forget about me. Maybe it’s because I scored a 21-something on that practice SAT and there’s hope for me yet. Maybe it’s because, today, for the briefest of all moments, the world, the whole world, life itself, seems to be going my way, walking right down my block, up my alley, heading my way.

And now, I’m going to sleep to some good ol’ Yoko Kanno. Or, maybe Nine Inch Nails, though I don’t know how that’s going to help me sleep at all.

Okay, honesty…

I feel like shit. I feel like shit. I feel like shit. I feel like shit.

I feel like shit.

I feel like shit.

STOP FUCKING CALLING

Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop…

Life is just like buying a pina colada from the San whatever fair and wasting my money. Life is just like that, just like that and with a straw too short and with a straw too short. NO ON FUCKING ASKS ME OUT

Is that all that bothers you? IS THAT ALL THAT BOTHERS YOU? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Stop calling. Go away. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I don’t want to love you. So go away. Go away, go away

It looks like I have a giant tattoo on my left arm. ]

I’m tired, I can’t feel my arms

I’m sore? Bruised all over?

I don’t need you, I don’t need this, stop, stop

I’m caught halfway between being tired

And being overactive

I need….to….I need….

I hate this and everything about this

Yes, sure, I feel like a complete idiot. I am an idiot. Who the hell did I think I was…who the hell did I think I was…oh, forget it, forget it.

I’m….lousy…weepy…fat…ugly….worthless…tired….of all this bullshit….I’d like a bullet to the head…..I’d like to die….

Please, please, please, just stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop

I wish I never met you

I wish I never met you

I wish I was a sophomore again

I wish I had physics with Ricky

I wish I could still go home with Miles

I wish I didn’t really have to care

I wish I could spend late nights with Abu and Ehtesh in a Starbucks

I wish I could be weird and chat with Harrison on AIM

I wish I could go to anime cons

I wish I could sleep over unannounced at Katerina’s

I wish I still had Ms. Brown

I wish I still had two classes with Sahil

I wish I could bitch about things

I wish I didn’t cry

I wish I wish I wished for something else besides someone to love me

I wish I wish I didn’t need it

I wish I wish for something else

Please, can I just be alone

Can I just stop

Can I get over myself and how small and how shitty and how annoying I feel deep deep deep down where commas don’t exist and where all of damn silly feelings are suppressed. Yes. Yes. Yes. I thought I was some sort of savior but I’m not, so whatever, I’m relieved of my…position, my need, I’m no longer needed for a role that I thought was essential, I’m just another whatever the hell

FUCK IT

And maybe, maybe I am using it as an excuse to get rid of him, to just end….so, I’m all good, but I’m not….I can feel the drop of liquid running down my lip

I feel like….shit.

My arms, my back, my entire person, I feel like crying and just crying because I’m not worth a damn thing, I’m not worth a damn thing at all

And I’m the one who drew the short stick and I’m the one that no one likes

So okay, okay, okay, I get it, I get it. I FUCKING GET IT. Spare the pain and leave me alone.

I’m flawed, I’m weak, I’m pathetic.

I wish I could just die.

I have no purpose, no point in living, no one to ask me out, because I’m not cute, I’m not anything, I’m just fat and annoying and fat and annoying and that’s all I am…please stop giving some sort of mock hope that someone out there loves me, please stop giving me hope that someone cares, I liked it better when no one did.

Fuck.

7.09

I have a picture of James McAvoy as my Twitter profile pic. He’s just looking back at me, with his arms crossed and that grin across his gorgeous face and I can’t stop looking back at him.

I should leave. I don’t really feel like. I actually read my New York Times article today, suicide bombing in Afghanistan, the most interesting thing in the world.

After these four songs, I leave.

Every time I hear Just Communication, or like Catch You Catch Me, I feel like crying and weeping. I’m going to write a blog post about it. Maybe, or at least start it.

It’s hot. The sun’s hot. The bench is hot. The asphalt is hot. The only cold thing is the can of soda in his hand, slowly fizzing in the summer heat. Sprinklers from a nearby playground shower him in mist, the screams and shrills of laughing children, the wet plops of their little feet in flip flops, a girl in a flowery bathing suit and dropping pigtails, her mother in her bug-eyed designer sunglasses watching from across the park.

He bought a set of German polyhedral die yesterday, bright blue/silver color as the box read, for no good reason from a comic book store. He feels them clanking in his pocket and pats them, almost asking them why they are there.

He checks his watch, half past noon, perhaps he should leave. He’ll be late. He is already late. When is he not late? Punctuality is a crime.

He fetches the die set from his pocket, opens the packaging and searches for a d20. He’ll roll for it, odds he leaves, evens he stays.

Okay, okay, I leave, I leave!

Leaving!

So, moments come and pass, moments come and go. I cried for the first time in a really long time and the thought, that passing though that indeed people I love, people I like, things I’ve enjoyed doing, will be gone next year, it was scary, it was just scary.

I don’t want to let go of anything.

This song is as catchy as fuck and it sounds incredibly badass, like I’m going to go out and shoot the living hell out of everyone and love every second of it. I like this song.

I like you.

7.10

The real question is: should I invite him? How do I invite him, if yes be the answer to that question? Will he say yes? How will I feel if he says no? Why do I feel like my own personal psychiatrist, and why won’t I stop smelling like garlic?

I think you come up with good ideas when you’re young only because you’re dumb enough to think they’re going to work. Most of the time, they do.

I hate everything. Hi, Ricky. I can’t even manage a greeting. I can’t click on his name, I can’t click, I can’t type, I can’t greet. Fuck this.

And here I am, my own little mental dilemma that makes my arms go numb. Sometimes I think it’s the fan, but I know it’s just the thought of speaking to him.

I freak myself out sometimes. I don’t like it. If I don’t talk to him at some point, I think I’m going to combust, just implode, or die. It’s awful? It’s weird.

Have you heard the news? Bad things come in twos?

7.29

I have nothing else left to do, and honestly, Old Spice can get annoying after a while.

So, realistically, I’m not really thinking about him anymore. Truthfully, I miss my days of being an obsessive lover, on the verge of tears at the mere thought of this…idea, this person, whatever you, which is really me, want to call it. Nowadays, I’m just in denial about it. Or, maybe I’ve become numb to my fits of emotional insurrection, but I still can’t bring myself to IM him when he’s online, despite my need to ask him, “So, how’s that phone line of yours holding up?” Maybe it’s the fear that he won’t answer that keeps my keyboard happy fingers at bay, but then again, it works against me that he’s been idle for the last eleven hours and counting.

Then, on the other hand, you have the other kid. Of course, even in retrospect, none of this will make sense to anyone, not even me. My feelings for him are a mess, a stew of lovely, incoherent feelings and whatevers, and god, the spell of Old Spice is really, really strong. You know, the other other one, meaning the one above, had a particular smell too. No shit Sherlock, of course I know, I was there the entire time, you flipping moron. Shut up, this really isn’t a time to be schiz. No? Really, now, you’re telling me after some ten odd years you hate me? No, fucking Sherlock Holmes, I’m telling you to fuck off.

Right, anyways, there’s no real purpose, his screen name on AIM just makes me giddy. I really shouldn’t be, because I swear I’ve gotten over it, though I feel I will never actually get over it, but, really, we ought to move along. He’s still idle and he’s still there.

I just hate…being almost there.

I really hate just being almost there.

So much, so much, so much…that it hurts as bad, if not worse, than a headache, than a stomach ache, than anything else…

Well, there, I did it, my wireless just hates me, so much…

So much…

I’ll wait, I’ll wait. I’ll sit it out. This is actually legitimately annoying. I’d like my internet back and functioning.

So, wait, what was that page loading then? Some godforsaken tease my wireless network has become? What in the name of god is this?!

Judgement

I am, now, very satisfied.

Among other things…

Light reading turned out to be very boring, so I’m gonna just go for it when the torrent’s done and hopefully my one point something gigs of a cracked game is going to work. If not, I cry. For now, I suffer the throes of a dying love, unfinished homework and a stomach ache.

The search function is inherently useless.

I’m satisfied, today, with almost everything that’s happened. Jeffrey, Ricky, moomoo, food, movies, TCGs, games, everything today feels exceptional. A very good day, in the fine words of my friend, a very good day. And by god, I hope it stays that way. Maybe it’s because I’m recovering from a week of feeling deeply unwell and sick on the inside. Maybe it’s because I cut prep and stayed home the entire day, rolling around and doing nothing. Maybe it’s because I shared a moment with Ricky Meyer and nothing awkward happened. Maybe it’s because I’m accepting the fact that I’m going to miss him and he’s going to stay a friend. Maybe it’s because YOU ARE AN INANIMATE FUCKING OBJECT! Maybe it’s because that all my college bound senior buddies aren’t going to forget about me. Maybe it’s because I scored a 21-something on that practice SAT and there’s hope for me yet. Maybe it’s because, today, for the briefest of all moments, the world, the whole world, life itself, seems to be going my way, walking right down my block, up my alley, heading my way.

And now, I’m going to sleep to some good ol’ Yoko Kanno. Or, maybe Nine Inch Nails, though I don’t know how that’s going to help me sleep at all.

8.07

“Lobe, where the fuck is the bus?”

When my breath stops hitching when I see you, when talking to you becomes daily, when you aren’t the tingling sensation down the side of my, I think I’m through.

That song, this song, gets me, it’s catchy. I’m afraid? Annoyed? Can I say both? This feeling, that feeling, down there is bugging me, I hope it goes away. Most prevailing feeling of the moment, dread, annoyance, constipation.

If I go crazy will you still call me Superman?

It needs to go away.

The night is quiet the night is lonely

He walks, morose, through life silently

Lights a cigarette, the flame flickers

He has given me so many things, I’ve given him nothing. Is my company good enough?

If not for me, then you’d be dead.

That song makes a lot of sense to me, a lot, a lot of sense. Lately, I haven’t been feeling anything, none of my usual roller coaster rides into hell, none of my usual ups and downs and rants. Instead, a newfound complacency, have I found a home? Have I found peace, or am I simply at rest, at rest in his arms?

Do I keep him chained? Need I set him free? Is this reluctances love, or greed?

It’s odd, to share? Isn’t it? Because what’s mine is mine and to share with someone, him, this piece of me is like opening a book to the world that is solely mine. What is it now? He hasn’t even read the blurb, calm down.

It’s like holding your breath, for a really long time, until he responds and you get to see what he thinks of you.

Has he any idea how odd it is to have someone tell you they love you and not know what to say back? Like, being caught (without a Twix) and not knowing where to turn, to smile? Grin? Laugh? Reject? What am I to do?

Okay, it’s really distracting, there’s a violent surge, if you will, of emotion that is the completely opposite of emotion. Am I numb, or am I just missing something? Or, is this feeling entirely new?

Mostly, I tell you it’s just THAT, down THERE, that’s bothering me.

I left my body lying somewhere in the sands of time.

No wonder this song was such a hit, good fucking lyrics.

Night, kid.

I feel like crying. Awfully, into the night

Answer all of his questions (?) with laughter (lol).

She’s not sure where she stands anymore, which side of the road she’s standing on. Whether she’s the reflection or the one looking in, whether she’s living or whether she’s dead, whether she’s just a wraith floating mindlessly through the world, passing in and out of memories.

Remember me, when you’re gone.

I didn’t do homework. It’s an odd feeling. I forgot to ask.

Life seems to be so full of shit. All of the days I have lived, I have done nothing worthwhile. Perhaps he is the key to the rest of my life, to the rest of me, the me that’s been sleeping, waiting to rise.

With a summer like this, how can I look forward to September, to school?

With a life like this, have I any other horrors to seek? Have another life to lead?

I lied to my mother today, for the first time in a while, a lie of such a magnitude. I had done neither of the two things I so blatantly told her I did, but I promise to do so tomorrow.

He had, of course, left something here, a pen that wasn’t exactly his lying on my table.

Miles, maybe, had left already. Ricky leaves on the 15^th. Harrison leaves on the 20^th. Jeffrey leaves the night of the 21^st, driven by his parents to Williamsburg, Virginia. I think I’m living a dream, a beautiful, ephemeral dream and the moment he leaves, the moment reality starts seeping in between the cracks of my beautiful, beautiful mirage, everything is going to crash. Life, the fire, Rabbit and Jill, life is but an illusion and all of this curious activity is a break from the monotony, the viscous tar of my life, the untimely reality.

SATs, looming like a knife above my head, in October, life waits.

Still listening to the same song. I like that song. Honest.

Maybe it’s the snare drum. I took a walk around the world to ease my troubled mind. I left my body somewhere in the sands of time.

Beautiful.

Lately, save for Winnie’s party, which was infected by his presence anyway (I’m stuck using words like reek and infect, which carry damn negative connotations, but fit the situation, don’t take it harshly)

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

(Did you know that I look forward to you coming over?)

8.13

I’ve never came before thinking of a man. It’s a vile thought, dirty, but I couldn’t help myself as I edged closer to the zenith of my affection.

Alright, so what am I now? Content? I guess heartbreak is somewhere down this line, but right now, the moment, the molasses of life, as it ambles along, day to day, existence to existence, conversation to conversation, second to second is ample enough for my contentment.

I think I’m in love with. I know I’m in love with him. There’s a nagging sense of incomprehensibility. There’s more that I want than just a kiss, there’s more that I want to do than just a kiss, there’s more, there’s more, there’s a lot more, so much that I want to strangle him in the arms of my abstract ideals.

Yes, yes, I fucking love him. Now, you shut the fuck up. GODDAMNIT. You’re such an annoying bastard, even when we’re happy. Oh, you sick fuck. Yes, fine, go touch yourself. God…

And, don’t forget to shower…at like….four. lol

Death grew up a funny kid. He didn’t have any friends and spent most of his time playing by himself in the corner. He was nearly forgotten when the Immortals

One of these I’m going to run around screaming, “He loves me! He loves me!” in pure joy and still be embarrassed about it.

Egotistical

Death grew up a funny kid. For the most part, he was completely forgotten by the rest of the Immortals and had spent most of Creation sulking in the corner. They’ve always considered him, more or less, to be an accident, an afterthought, the child of a trifle conversation between mortals and immortals, back when they used to speak to each other.

“How are we any different from you?” the mortals had asked.

“Because we cannot die,” the immortals replied.

And thus, Death became his name, and Hell the land he walked.

The worst of part love is the expectation of something in return. The moment I fell for that trap was the moment I became a blind woman, grappling in the darkness for something to hold my hand and walk me through. Loosing control is never something I volunteer for.

Life would be a lot easier if I didn’t feel so useless, so condemned by my physical form, so beleaguered by my existence. Life would be a lot easier if I were dead.

My temperament is not one of action, my temperament in one of laziness, of tired laziness.

Guns N’ Roses, holy fucking shit. NIGHT TRAIN, I can’t do anything but just LOL!!

Azrael never really considered himself a servant

42^nd and Broadway, he’s got his headphones, the fancy sound canceling kind, cranked up so high he doesn’t hear the taxi blaring at him. He cuts across the street, through sluggish, busy Manhattan traffic at midday, the sky is a luminescent shade of gray above him, as if it were about to rain.

Yeah, hush up about it. Please, just pretend it is not there.

The funniest thing: getting off on being shot during sex.

8.24

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[inhales deeply, exhales satisfied]

Ah, America. Land of the free, home of the brave.

8.27

She slips a finger between her wet folds. She whimpers softly at her own touch, shocked by her actions, by her own response. She runs her middle up and down lightly, almost gliding over her moist, tender lips. She spreads her legs further. She is propped up by one hand on her bed, head thrown back, in ecstasy from her soft touches. Her legs tremble. Her collar bones peek from under pale, white skin, moonlight dips in the shadows of her stomach, the sockets of her eyes, the valley of breasts, a traveler in the land of flesh. She teases herself and feels her tunnels contract. Her eyes closed, she whimpers again, drops her arm and lies back on soft satin sheets. The free hand immediately reaches for a nipple, thumb and index finger twisting the bundle of nerves, eliciting more moans from her mouth, lips glistening with moisture. She dreams of a man to love her. She spreads, when she is unable to resist the heat and tension building in her core, the wet lips of my womanhood and circles her erect clitoris. Her breathing turns to pants as middle finger works the small button of flesh, as her index and ring finger props open her lips. Her mind is blank with the hot fire of pleasure, she is beyond redemption, steeped in sin. Her clitoris takes her past the point of return, shoots her like a cannonball from the mouth of hell into cold, calm waters. Her moans were loud, groans guttural, every once in a while, when she hits a spot to sensitive, turns to a girlish squeal. Her eyes are squeezed shut, skin dripping with sweat, hair is caught between her head and the pillow, the friction she generates as she works only her clitoris. Suddenly, she comes, with a shriek of absolute pleasure, eyes bursting open, shooting up to a sitting position, she parts her legs further, slipping two of her fingers into her wet, dripping canal, two knuckles deep before she gives into the satisfaction of being filling. She pumps, starting over, she grinds against her over hand. She is now on all fours, all threes, one hand working herself to her second orgasm. Her fingers, she finds them inadequate in girth and length. Ripping own her nightstand drawer, she reaches, first, for her egg vibrator. The tiny pink colored ball slips in easily and she shudders, violently, as it begins to do its job. With a shaky hand she reaches for a dildo, purple and large. In her almost sedated state, she inserts the toy into herself after the egg. She shrieks again, high-pitched, like a banshee, her sheets were stained with her own juices. She works the dildo in and out of herself without stop, without pause, rapidly as possible. Her voice is hoarse, but she is unable to keep herself from moaning, the egg vibrates against her g-spot. A spare hand, almost absent-mindedly relative to the frenzy of activity between her legs, pulls at her nipples, another octave to her scream. She is certain that she will die, the pleasure so great and so intense, she cannot go any faster, the zenith of her own abilities. She pumps hard, fast, hard, fast, hard, fast, faster, faster, faster, faster…until her arm, her body, her mind, her very core is overcome with a feeling of numbness, blinding release, as if she’s found god. She screams, loud. She does hear her doorknob turn and does not see the masked man, armed with a knife, until it is too late. His rough callous hand presses the handle of the knife to her face, the cold metal rubs at her cheek. Her raises one index finger, but she screams regardless. Her shrill is muffled by an expert kiss, one, that after her episode, she finds herself unable to resist. He pins her wrists over her head. Shame overcomes her, disgust, but she longs so much for a man, so desperate, in the most vulgar of terms, for a cock, that she returns the intruder’s advance. He is surprised, the kiss becomes, almost, gentle. He lifts his mouth slowly. She does not scream. He is pleased. He drops the knife by her head, examines her face, a beautiful, innocent sort of face, undeserving of this violation, this desecration of her purity, but he is unable to control himself. He grinds his growing erection against her pelvis. She grinds back, a faint tear rolls down her cheeks, her own actions, is she but a simple whore. The rapist extends his tongue and licks the tear off her cheeks and claims his newfound prize with another kiss. The kiss trails down her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. His hands leave her wrists now that she is docile and subdued, like warm butter under his ministrations. He is in disbelief, how lucky he was to walk in on such a horny soul. His hands are rough, but she likes it, as it draws circles over her skin, briefly teasing her nipples, rousing them to attention, perky and upright, he flicks one and sucks the other. She grabs his head, tears off his mask in search of his hair. This takes him by surprise and his head jolts up, green eyes meet her confused-and lustful-brown. He is momentarily angered, then, as she raises her chests to brush at this chin, he continues his work. They have reached an understanding. She subdues the thought that he is strangely handsome. What would rouse such a handsome face to such depravity? She forgoes that train of thought and zooms in on the pleasure of his tongue and fingers. His hand trails down her body, tickling her, she moans, squeals, squirms much to his delight. This is less rape and more love making. He looks up at her, straddles her waist, his boots tracking dirt on her satin sheets. She does not mind. He grins as he hoists her legs over his shoulders and gently eases himself to a low, prone position on the bed. She watches as he extends his tongue, the tongue that had so passionately opened, despite the contradicting situation, her sexual floodgates, to take in this stranger, to allow him to touch her, to reveal to him her innermost desires, the tongue that now enters her womanhood. Her entire body arches, as if touched by fire, as if a jolt of electricity is sent through her body. Hot tears stream down her face, there is a sickness, coupled with love and hatred and lust and desire and a need to implode brewing in her stomach. She presses his head down further. The man sucks, with deceptive skill, at her clitoris. She bucks wildly as he inserts his larger, more adept fingers into her, once again, wet tunnel. One, then two, then, slowly, as if he does not wish to hurt her, he plunges in a third. A moan, a deep moan emanating from chest gives him permission to continue. He plays wilding with her clit and thrusts hard and fasts his three fingers. Her mind races, better than a toy, better than plastic, she is bucking, bucking, bucking as his hand, against his face, juices, fluids, everywhere. In a slow, deliberate motion, he stops. She looks up, confused, horny, needy, ready to explode, but before she is addressed, she feels his tongue, that beautiful tongue, crawling up her tunnel. She explodes, without restraint, and gushes into his mouth. He listens to the sound of himself eating her. His member strains against his pants and is pained by neglect. He drops his pants, his boxers, all in one fluid motion. She is momentarily captivated by his large member before all of it disappears in her. Her eyes widen, pupil constrict, mind blank and for the first time that night, is completely numb. Gone, over the edge, she is an animal, he is an animal, they mate. She reaches for his shoulders and humps his stiff piece rhythmically to his movements. He clutches her by her ass, slapping them at interval, the sound of skin on skin, flesh, urges them on. He spreads her cheeks and devilishly inserts the egg vibrator, though to some resistance, into her second hole. He mutes her ecstatic moan with a kiss. Their love making, what began as masturbation turned rape, is frenzied. The noises are almost incomprehensible, grunts, moans, pants, mouth open, eyes closed, she is taken, intoxicated. He is nearing the edge of his abilities, he finds, in his heart, a strange place for this woman. He fucks her, without regret. He finds that she is shaking, clinging to him, despite herself, she brings her lips to his ears in an almost painful motion and whispers, gives him permission. With this, he fucks harder, thrusting hard, she is almost bouncing on his pulsating member, tunnel squeezing the flesh as she nears another climax. He feels the egg, sometimes, and moves faster. From their upright position, he slams her down on the bed, against her sheets, pushes her legs over her head, caging her, pinning her down and plows into her. Without notice, except for a loud, groan, he comes in her. She feels fulfilled, coming shortly after, her tunnels clenching his cock. She is filled by his semen. He stays in her and does not move, collapses on top of her, pulls out the egg and kisses her. He no longer remembers why he broke into the house, and she no longer remembers that he had intended to rape her. They fall asleep, together.

I keep on having these dreams, dreams about people who love me, or almost.

I mean, listening to really happy, almost unheard of pop makes me happy sometimes. Fuck it, who cares if I’m listening to Good Charlotte or something, I like it right now, I’m good right now.

Okay, goals in life:

Fly to outer space and therefore, loose weight, make a shitload of money, maybe win the lottery

Quiet honestly, I wouldn’t mind any of it. I’d be his little girl. I feel so small in his company, so dainty, so clumsy, so small, so tiny, so child-like and full of wonder, like I’d want to stay with him, cling to him, lie in his lap….

I feel like a cat. I feel warm. I want to hear his heartbeat. I want to hear him. I want him, so much. I want him to be with me. I want him to stay.

Where are you?

It’s like, it’s like, it’s like….I can’t even really describe it. It’s just this longing, this deep, desperate longing for something, a longing that I can’t seem…to get over.

I’m tired. There’s a headache brewing. I need to write that oratory before Friday. If I closed my eyes right now, I’d be gone in seconds, minutes.

He cooked me lunch that day. And, sitting on the couch in his house, watching him from the back, his round, hunched shape, with his god awful haircut and shorts, with him, I felt the most incredible thing, something so delicate, so perversely innocent and sweet I can’t edge it out of my mind at all.

Every time I think of us fucking, I get a warm feeling in my heart. I wonder, what’s the real difference between making love and fucking? Which is sweeter, and which is more brutal? Which is it?

I need sleep.

He lifts her chin and brings her lips closer to his. He gazes at her, through hooded lids, a milky, opaque look in his eyes, clouded by desire, hunger, love and need. She’s wide-eyed and stunning in the reflection cast by the mirror of his eyes, looking back. She is cornered by his body, one arm extends to the wall, hand next to her head, his support. Eyelids sink deeper, he is taken by darkness as he, on instinct, presses his lips to hers. It is brief, mere contact, he breaks away, but does not move away, noses touch, foreheads resting against each other. Her eyes are closed, a faint pink taint her cheeks, and she grabs a handful of his shirtsleeve.

Had a dream about Ricky last night, it was like a conglomeration of the school year. I dream pretty symbolically. I was in Time Square, I think. Perhaps doing the English project, but I was never there for that shooting. There was McDonalds with a two customer lines, two alcoves and one was larger than the other. Some people doing a photo shoot, I think Tila Tequila was there. It was an odd photo shoot, they were all dressed up. One of them, some black lady, bursting out of her costume, was in a variation of some qi pao like garb, and she was the photographer. They were doing it in front of the second McDonalds entrance. The whole place didn’t resemble Time Square in the least, but my mind told me it was.

Somewhere down the line, Ricky and Miles come down the street, like they did the eighth floor hallway second term. Ricky’s wearing black, a strange piece of cloth zipped up all the way to the collar. I don’t really remember much of Miles, you can tell why. Ricky, for some reason, like he always does, comes down and talks to me, maybe it’s because no one else there really knew him, or maybe it’s because I wanted him to. I think I wanted him to. We talk about something and most of that bit of the dream is a blur. We noticed them, if I remember, down the street because a friendly, yet smelly bum was headed in our direction with a group of other bums and they were behind them.

I was under the assumption that Ricky was in the golf club and there was some sort of violence involving a golf club. But, as it turns out, he was on some Ultimate Chase thing. You know, if you remember, like that game we played at Katerina’s with Eva and her. So, basically, he gets on a bus, then, after receiving radio, or some form of communication, instruction, he dodges off the bus and runs after someone. All the while, I’m watching, with some sort of food in my hand, my mind tells me that that’s appropriate as such. I watched the photo shoot.

There was also a mild interlude about walking down hill on a street, something like a row of brownstones with the air of San Francisco to it. And movies, I don’t remember much.

So, when he gets back, I was hoping that’d he’d eat and he does. He buys some sort of McDonalds food and we sit. He whips out of a map, several maps and I suddenly have this ephiphany that it was like that board game. I was dreaming that he was playing the board game. Instead of Mr. X, the culprit was like Sexy something.

Right before I woke up, I think my hand was settling in his, in a really mute, really stifled and crush-like and high school way, the way it’s always been and always will be in my memory, nothing more, nothing less.

I think, the first I said to him when I saw him was to take him by the arm and tell him I missed him. I forgot his response.

I’m not sure, I miss him, I miss it, I miss loving love for the sake of love, I miss being perennially occupied with a figment of my imagination, some grand seal I placed upon this poor man as a symbol of my idolatry. I miss physics class, I miss his computer, I miss arm, covered in fine, gold hairs that brushed briefly against my own, I miss that curious look on his face, when he would turn to me and I’d see his blue and amber irises, I miss him, I miss him. I don’t know why I still do, but it comes back to me with a dream, all of the bits and pieces of the man I fell in love with, a man that never loved me back, the ephemeral moments I spent with him. It all started with that hair.

‘Still typing?’

‘Yeah.’

The reality is something I can never handle. Where I am now, it’s a strange place. I’m not with somebody I’d ever imagine being with, yet I can’t let him go because I’m afraid of being alone, of being hung up on, of being signed off on, of being by myself again, why am I so cruel to him?

I love him, too. I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do. If only….perhaps life was just not meant to be. I want to stop being a coward. But if you, me, I, looked nice enough, maybe we wouldn’t have to do the talking, maybe we wouldn’t have to do the work and suffer the heartbreak. Human emotional is fickle, power over this capriciousness in a wonderful gift.

Suffocate

Announcing

Miscellaneous

Personal

I had a dream about Paul Drugs. Paul Drugs does not exist. So, basically, it was like a Stuy crossed with Hogwarts and every time I stepped outside, the school courtyard grew. So, there was this redhead guy, who looked a lot like some famous ballet dancer and he kept inviting me to do drugs and I wasn’t exactly refusing. But every time we tried to smoke, something stupid would happen, like he drops in sand and can’t find it, a gust of wind blows the cocaine away, or something. It looked a lot like the courtyard from Atonement, with the fountain, but more green and minus James McAvoy. A lot of weird shit happened, I remember some people wrestling in the third floor atrium, near the gym. I remember some weird water ballet performance by the faculty. They wore hideous costumes and dove into the pool, which was outdoors and in an alcove of sorts. We watched by the side, huddled together because the pool deck was slippery and skinny. And, the end of this dream was marked by a strange Call of Duty game commercial involving a man named Paul Drugs. Paul Drugs, as I remember it, lay in a military cot, with tubes running in and out of his body, a little military experiment gone wrong-esque, with bandages and what not, a little anime-esque as well. There’s the commercial guy’s voice in the background, Paul Drugs’ eyes fly open. He goes crazy. Every time he is shot, the bullet would turn into a spike growing out of his skin and he would rip it off, like that Naruto guy, and impale the shooter with his own bullet. And, that’s about it.

Paul Drugs, man….

Hearing my heart break, I feel like crying. Maybe it’s a lack of a sleep, maybe it’s a lack of you, maybe it’s both. Here I sit in your sweater, clinging desperately to a fleeting memory of you, clinging desperately to the memory of a man who promised to love me, a promise that I fear one day broken, will be my solitary ruin, here I sit (weak and weary) by my lonesome self.

Last night was probably the first time I thought about Ricky Meyer in a really long time.

I’ve loved you for such a long time, such a long, long time. Why won’t you love me back? Why won’t you love me?!

Quite honestly, I just really needed a way out, an escape from the horrid reality that plagues. Now that my escape has left, now that I am left alone, once again, now that the world comes crashing back, like the pull and push of waves on the beach, I’m…lost? Lonely? Miserably? This is a world that never loved me. I am alone.

And somehow, right now, the world seems so big and I seem so small and college so intimidating and school so annoying and all I want is you, you, you, to bury my face in your chest, take in the way you smell, stay with you, hang on to you, my last flickering ray of light, of hope, of salvation from my lonely despair. Oh, stay with me.

And in an instant, all of this emotion washes over me. All of this leaves me and I feel no more the pain, the dull ache that resides in the calm and lucid sea of my dreams. It leaves me like a wraith being blown across the world, his ghostly existence betrays him. It leaves, like autumn wind and winter snow. It leaves, like you left me.

Maybe I’m just hungry. Perhaps hunger is akin to despair, lust, the need to be filling, satiated by your presence, a thirst never ending, complete me? I beg.

Everything reminds me of you, your silence, your abrupt unresponsiveness plays, teases my mind. I long, I long for your response, speak, I shall listen to your words, savor them like droplets of gold, of honey, of sweet mellifluous sound. Speak.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate all of it. Take me seriously. Love me.

There’s a sickness in my stomach. Please stay. I want to cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, please don’t go. Be with me. Love me. Tend to me. Feed my heart with love. Do anything, just don’t leave. Please, don’t forget about me.

I can’t stand it, fuck, fuck, fuck, I really, I spend almost every single waking moment just thinking about him, this person, him, you, he, shit, I don’t care, I don’t know. I want you, I want you. Come back, come back. This is worse than anything you could’ve ever done to me, to leave me like this, like you always do, abruptly, right when I’m reaching satisfaction, right when I’m willing to admit my love for you, right when I know what I want, when I want to tell you something you leave at the worse times possible.

I’m trying to type with all ten fingers and it’s really sort of hard even though it’s really not, maybe that’s why lately I’ve been slipping up because I’m engaging my left ring finger but that;s a different story entirely. In a way I am typing faster but I don’t really know.

Hey, kid

I miss you. No, quite honestly I don’t know what I’m feeling now, but it hurts a hell of a lot every time I so much as even think of you. The though of you crossing my mind is akin to be stabbed repeatedly through the heart with a sharp, blunt, hot, molting, large piece of metal. It hurts like fuck.

It really just comes back, now, to yearning for someone, anyone. I’m…tired? Tired? Of waiting, of this gushing feeling exploding from my chest, of loving…

Do I miss him? Or the idea of him? I wonder…if I’ll ever stop living in abstractions. I wonder…if I’ll ever get over myself. Cease my useless pandering…I wonder.

Why, why, why, why, why, why…do I do this all the time. I’m so useless in every venture I attempt. I’m so useless in everything I don’t attempt. A dream is a dream, and I’ll just look for a way out.

I feel like crying. Everything is an inane impossibility.

I needed that, in the most sincere way, I need that.

He was sort of right, I can’t get any credit for it anyways.

My penis, your vagina, come Thanksgiving? Oh god, I feel like tackling him. I’m giddy. That’s all.

Henry Rearden’s family needs to be smacked. I feel bad for the poor man. God, his mother is awful. I would’ve loved the bracelet. I am a fucking sentimentalist.

There’s a…there’s something…I’m trying to understand myself and failing. I don’t get why it hurts so much, human emotion, human interaction, all of this nonsense that fills the world. I just want to die, inevitably, in the end. I want to cry. I want him and yet, I know, I know I don’t. I don’t know I want something better. There, there we go. He’s my first love? Just the first. I’d wound up marrying my high school sweetheart? Who am I? What am I going to do? Why am I such an incapable person. GOD FUCKING DAMN. GOD FUCKING DAMN I HATE EVERYTHING Shhh, quiet, calm down, calm down…shhh, I hate it when he tells me to shut up. I hate it when he doesn’t speak. I don’t get him. Why is he so self destructive? What is he trying to PROVE?

There’s restlessness in my bones, in my veins, that maybe I’m mistaking for lust and desire, or maybe it’s the other way around. If her were here with me I’d wring his neck, but had he been here the entire time, I wouldn’t be feeling this, at all. Everything, everything is a dream, I’m living in a hell, without a door and without a window, without an exit. I want out.

I had a dream about Simon Baker, yes, “The Mentalist” guy, yes, yes, yes. I liked it very much, the way he looked at me, slipping his hand in mine, the way his skin felt, smooth, silky, like butter, like cream, the way he held me as we studied that sheet. I don’t get what we were doing, I suppose we were stuck in the day July 20^th. What year? I don’t remember. And the second, the second the fragile shell of my dream breaks, I’m tossed like a helpless rag doll back into reality, into the jarring company of my friends, my Iona prep friends, my Stuy friends, Michael May, John Connuck, Justy Kosek, people I don’t even think about, unless I see them of course. Perhaps, perhaps this is a sign…of something, a sign of foreboding. Something.

I don’t know how I feel right now. I feel numb to everything, but at the same time so sensitive to the smallest emotion. Sex, fucking, nothing, nothing, it’s all just nothing, ash, dust, a carpe diem philosophy, smoke and mirrors, rising in the air like a cylindrical dragon of death, a phoenix rising fro, its ashes, from the cherry pit of a cigarette, rising to greet the ceiling, rising to die.

Something about everything that bugs me. How much I love him, how much I do but don’t want to stay together. How much everything hurts and how much I just want to…I can’t even describe it in words anymore. It’s just this nagging sense of something that eats and eats and eats away at everything, it’s like acid.

He always checks, when he puts on headphones, whether or not it’s the left or right earpiece, it bothers him when he gets it wrong.

But he makes me happy on the inside. I feel like I want to keep him, keep him still and hold him somewhere, captive. I wasn’t really kidding about the whole Calypso thing. God, I hope that haircut thing works out.

Okay, okay, maybe I do look like a retard. But at least I’m happy, at least I look the part.

The house is dark and damp, pellets of rain drum against the windows. He wakes to a clap of thunder.

Do you know your beaches?

I don’t really know why I’m happy with him. Honestly. But I am happy, indecently happy. I don’t want to let go.

Okay, I know shut the fuck up. He isn’t the most handsome thing in the world. He doesn’t have the biggest dick in the world (whatever, at this, point, whatever, it’s honestly, the only one I know, so for all I know, it’s the best thing in the world), and honestly, my conscious isn’t going to let me get away with staying with him my entire in life and in a secret portion of my soul, I know, I want, I know I want to marry a white man, but goddamn, god motherfucking goddamn son of a bitch, I LOVE HIM. So you, you, stay still and shut the fuck up for a couple seconds. What happens, happens, I’ll deal with it. I’ll deal with it. I’ll fucking deal with it.

Honestly, I don’t know when I’m gonna wake up tomorrow, honestly. It feels like I might not making up tomorrow. XD

Oh well, oh fucking well. I don’t even have a big part and I’m going to look like a retard tomorrow.

I want to see him tomorrow. I want to see him tomorrow. I want to be with him, forever and ever and ever. And, I don’t know, I need his hair to grow back.

I don’t think about Ricky anymore, maybe I was just desperate and in this desperation, I stumbled into him, which, honestly, is the best anything I could’ve ever asked for. My superman. My hero. My savior. (Okay, that last one, too extreme, but still…)

CHRIST FUCKING MISQUITOS

JESUS CHRIST!

I HAVE ANOTHER ONE ON THE BACK OF MY NECK!!! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK FUCK IS THIS SHIT!?

I still can’t get over how much ‘this’ looks like ‘shit’.

This is my boyfriend. His name is Jeffrey. He’s a little shy, a little strange and a little unfamiliar.

I want

I want to hold on and never let go

I want to love you forever

It’s like being addicted to heroine, or addictive to anything. The more you have, the more you want it and it gives you the shivers when you think about living without it.

He, you, you were the first the person to love me. I’ll never forget you. Cross whatever bridge that comes my way, I’ll remember you forever.

If I breathe deeply enough, sometimes I can still smell him, lingering in my senses.

Obsessive love

Well, I haven’t written a word in a really long time.

Mainly because, I think, I’ve been spilling my guts to Jeffrey, thus eliminating a real need to pour my sacred thoughts out to Word. But, now that he’s gone, my anti-drug, I’ve returned to thee. Oh, how I have missed the serif fonts, the clacking of my keyboard, the stark, austere black font on white, pixel by pixel, keystroke by keystroke, a sick and twisted masturbation, I confess myself to you.

Right, so, I’m going to head to work in a bit, like, ten minutes, or so. I’m really glad she’s on vacation, it means I’m on vacation, for that one day or so.

I have about a week left, a week left of the inside of my room, a week left of my electric fan humming by my side, a week left of lethargic stillness, stagnation, boredom, or not posting on my anime blog, or fiddling with the rest of my site and code and whatever.

Anime’s been out of my system lately, I’ve, in a really odd way, lost complete interest in the matter. I’m hoping to pick it back up again because it’s not really something I can do without, but it’s nice to know that I can live without it regardless.

I’m going to learn how to play Nightrain, just watch.

This document’s been open for a long ass time.

Do I love him? Yes. No? Maybe? I can’t tell anymore, but I want him, I love being with him. I love him in me. It’s a weird feeling to feel like you belong somewhere and that somewhere, someone loves you.

Famous people write memoirs, I’m not famous yet.

He left today, around 2ish, 3ish, with a picture of me in his wallet and a rabbit keychain, as reminder of my love, with him, somewhere on his person.

I’ll wait for the day he returns.