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Thursday, April 28th, 2011
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I'm about to get a colonoscopy done for real this time.
I'm pretty sure that laxatives simply have no effect on me--or rather that it is pointless to pour lube and electrolytes down the throat of someone who is already on a completely liquid, low-residue diet. But you know, I am an obedient person. Despite the fact that I haven't even needed to take a dump in the last several days, I gamely choked down some lemon-flavored citrate of magnesium. I also gamely threw it up several minutes later, along with some seriously highlighter-colored yellow vomit.
Ever since I got my tonsils out, I have enjoyed the ability to vomit almost exclusively through my nose. I don't know if you guys have ever had a carbonated beverage come through your sinuses, but it feels great. The bubbles are feel like the gentle little tickles of a lover. No, I'm just kidding: it feels like someone is burning your sinuses with a flamethrower. Of course the citrate of magnesium was carbonated.
As far as my relationship with Scott, there is no way to fit the happenings of the last year into a post--or even several posts. Plus I have to pre-colonoscopy shower. I wonder if I will want another afterward. Also, prime time for anal afterward? These are the important things they don't tell you in front of your parents, I guess.
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Nine months after my last entry, a lot has happened (obviously).
I got fired for the first time. I thought that it was because I was irresponsible. Every morning I was so stressed out about getting to work on time this time that I would have horrible stomach aches and explosive diarrhea. I would sit in the bathroom for hours, unable to move from the toilet. I attributed it to anxiety, to a problem in my mind, to an inability to get myself going. I thought that normal, high-achieving people were just better able to schedule their bowel movements. Ultimately, I thought that my own bowel movements were normal. I couldn't believe how I was failing myself, how I couldn't force myself to get to work on time.
I went to the doctor the day before I got fired. Part of me thought that something was wrong: I hadn't had shit anything remotely solid in over a year and the stomach pain was getting so bad that I had stopped eating. But the rest of me was convinced that I was just grasping for an excuse to hide behind. I knew what was coming at my job and, typical Katie, I wanted to absolve myself from responsibility. I wanted my irresponsibility to have a reason and a medical diagnosis. She palpated my abdomen, asked me a few questions about my anxiety level, then diagnosed me with IBS. She prescribed me probiotics and antidepressants, wrote me a note so that I could take a few days off of work (little did I know!). I left feeling vaguely hopeful and vaguely dissatisfied all at once.
Of course, it did not stop there. I lived with the pain and diarrhea, writing it off as the byproduct of stress, until about February, when I went back to therapy. My therapist was horrified that I thought of constant stomach pain, noticeable weight loss, and diarrhea that left an atheist shaking and crying for God, as normal. I have always been the stoic sort of therapy patient. I like to relate the facts, relatively bare and unembellished with emotional commentary. My life is the stage for my excessive emotions to star: therapy is the place where they are tamed into submission. What I'm getting at is that I'd never cried in therapy before that session. It simply hadn't occurred to me that this was not normal, and that something might actually be medically wrong with me--and that was the most freeing idea I'd ever had.
So I went to the doctor and got a referral to a gastroenterologist. He was a middle-aged physician's assistant who seemed uncomfortable with my youthful presence. The waiting room had been lined with elderly patients and walkers, the nurse had made a comment about my age. Literature about retirement and diverticulitis suggested that I was just not a gastroenterologist's target demographic.
Mr. Johns lifted my shirt gingerly, leaving it way below the line of my ribs. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had averted his eyes instead of looking at the sinful swath of skin around my belly button. I went from zero to completely uncomfortable in about four milliseconds. He paused and seemed to bolster himself for what was to come: palpating that lascivious abdomen. Carefully, with the touch of a butterfly and as few of our cells touching as possible, Mr. Johns completed his exam. "You're very young," he said. "It's probably just stress." He ordered some stool samples (rule out giardiasis and C. diff) and an abdominal ultrasound (cholecystitis) just in case. And he prescribed me antidepressants.
A negative abdominal ultrasound and several negative stool samples later, I found myself at the brink of leaving for Washington DC for an internship with none other than Harry Reid. I scheduled a colonoscopy for last Tuesday--and I was supposed to leave on last Thursday, 5/20. I drank the prep solution and abruptly found myself in the worst pain of my life several hours later. First of all, this pornographic dose of lube that I'd just swallowed had not made me shit anything. Not even a fucking splinter of shit, or a delicate brown blush. But that wasn't even the main problem. I spoke here about the pain of my tonsillectomy. This was a hundred times worse. Nothing existed except the pain. I vomited once, twice--all night. I yelled incoherently at the top of my lungs. I had no intelligent consciousness. At a certain point, my parents were called and I was rushed to the emergency room.
It turns out that I had appendicitis. While the doctor was taking out my appendix, he also noticed a lot of bowel that had scarred together into a large ball. And surprise! It was the proximal ileum. Now I have another colonoscopy scheduled to see if there is any inflammation inside my intestine. If not, then there is a slight chance that I may have had chronic appendicitis (so rare that it is basically a mythical condition). If there is, then I probably have Crohn's Disease.
Ultimately, I am not in Washington DC right now and I am sick. I wonder what I did in my past life to piss someone off so badly that a guy tried to off my dad with a sniper rifle and my ileum decided to shit out on me before I even reached 25.
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Tuesday, October 13th, 2009
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Without romance or great personal change, I suppose that there is nothing much to write about. Or perhaps especially when there is great personal change, there is nothing much to write about.
I used to be obsessed with blogging. I used to really enjoy laying out everything--all of the bloody entrails and viscera--for other people to read. It doesn't work like that anymore. I think I have changed.
I want to blame this on Scott. Before Scott, no one really listened to the boring stories of my day. I had friends to regale with amped-up, funny stories and interesting details, but the depressing shit and the boring shit got filed into the blog. These days, I come home and tell Scott all about my day. He tells me about his. We banter on and off throughout the night, getting things done and cooking dinner, kissing intermittently. Whenever I make a stupid observation of the sort that would usually wind up on my blog, I say it out loud. Scott gives immediate feedback, like the best commenter there ever was.
When we run out of things to say, I drape myself around Scott like a human stole. Especially now that it is cold, I like to keep my feet buried firmly underneath his ass. We sleep back to back with the covers up to our chins. We wake up and grope each other.
I really thought that moving in with Scott would give me all of the fodder in the world to write about. There would be so many things to harp upon in my blog, so many little things that I would want changed, so many habits to dissect. That hasn't happened. Our communication has blossomed and I already knew all of his habits. I want to say that I love him so much it's painful--because that is definitely the amplitude of my love--but it's not an accurate statement. Loving Scott doesn't hurt. Loving Scott feels very rational and realistic. Here is our apartment and here we are inside it, together. That is all there is to say. Together.
I worry about Scott lying to me, but even that doesn't scare me anymore. If Scott lies to me, then I will deal with it. I will probably be heartbroken, but didn't I know that was a very possible outcome when we first started dating? Don't I know that it's a very possible outcome even if Scott doesn't lie and things work out perfectly? It really is that simple.
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Thursday, August 13th, 2009
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I started this summer pretty modestly. I had a lot of goals. I wanted to find an apartment for the school year, get an internship, keep my job, make new friends, be able to run a mile without stopping, and be done with therapy. However, the eternal pessimist in me (I imagine a small man seated atop my limbic system, or perhaps astride the sella turcica) made sure that I didn't get too hopeful. I started out the summer with an extremely bad attitude, augmented by the fact that Scott left for Turkey without me. I had been figuring that a trip to Turkey was my only shot at greatness.
As soon as Scott's plane left the ground--or at least, as soon as I got off my ass and stopped crying the next day--I started hanging out with a new group of people. By the time Scott got back, I actually had friends. I can even say this in the present tense: I have friends. I have them, like little Hopi dolls. They're mine with no down payment, no monthly interest rates, and no hidden fees. And things snowballed from there. I can run a mile without stopping, and I write this having just returned to my parents' house from my brand-spanking-new apartment. I'm done with therapy and I've lined up not one but two awesome internship opportunities.
This summer has been more important than I can capture in words. Three years ago, my dad got shot. My dad got shot and Scott kept doing heavy drugs and I fell apart quietly. With the 20/20 of hindsight--and not to mention the corrective lens of therapy--I can now analyze this. I fell apart quietly because I felt that I didn't deserve anything more dramatic. My behaviors can be mapped clinically, attributed to varying levels of neurotransmitters, shelved. But these things aren't important. What I really want is to impress upon you how important this summer has been. Three years ago, Regina Spektor released an album. This summer, she released another. Three years ago, we went to New York so that my dad could make appearances on The Today Show and Larry King Live. This summer, we went to New York to celebrate a wedding and tool around Niagara Falls. I want these examples to be able to explain it. My life has come full circle. My life is fine. My life is finally fine. Or if it is not yet fine, at least it is not fucking blindfolded in a dark room with a hunting knife at its throat. My life is cautiously experiencing the sunshine. My life is putting on spf 25 and getting a bit of a tan. My life is smiling at the cute lifeguard and planning to go for a swim.
Scott and I moved in together. We have an apartment and blankets. We have a Wii, spoons, bowls, and lots of decorative paraphernalia. We enjoy going out on the balcony. I like to strip off Scott's pants in the night, before we lay our blankets on the floor. I like to strip off Scott's pants in the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom as well. I don't need help out of my pants because I never wear pants.
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Scott has abandoned me for the next three weeks and I don't know what to do with myself. For some reason, I am mourning his departure as though he has died and we will never see each other again. I have had thoughts such as, "I remember his last words to me," and "I would give anything to kiss him one more time." He has not been gone for quite 24 hours.
Things can only get better from here, but right now I am feeling pretty pathetic.
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Thursday, February 26th, 2009
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I hate my roommates. I wish that there was some way I could magically teleport back to January and end my lease early.
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Wednesday, February 4th, 2009
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Twenty is a weird age. Thinking about high school makes me feel old, but thinking about the future makes me feel impossibly young. I'm getting to the point where a lot of my friends are actually graduating college. It's completely and utterly inconceivable. I cannot be friends with adults who have real jobs and paychecks and taxes. I am not an adult. I spend 10 hours a week filing labs at a doctor's office and I make my own schedule. I'm under my mom's insurance and she still pays my cell phone bill. I just got my tax returns back for the year and I made a grand total of $2,000. I cannot be friends with people who are officially considered independent and/or above the poverty line.
I read over ten books in the month of January, but I can't bring myself to open my textbooks for anything. I thought that I would have a great revelation when I stopped taking biology classes and focused on finishing my English minor, but it turns out that I am still the same lazy bum.
Things with Scott are going well, if not fantastically. So I'm basically waiting for him to cheat on me. I don't think we've ever gone this long without something being seriously wrong, without some terrible lie being ousted, or someone having an emotional affair. But why! Why is Scott so trustworthy these days! I end these with exclamation marks because they are more lamentations than questions.
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Wednesday, January 28th, 2009
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It is good to be a radical, postmodern feminist. It is good to google things like "third wave feminism" and send emails to my favorite groups. It is good to consider completely uprooting my location in order to join a cause.
I know that feminism is typically associated with crunchy, angry lesbians. I don't want to support this ideal or anything, but three years of college have found a hidden me. I am a fucking granola crunching lesbian. I'm going to be a fucking midwife. It feels so good to get this all out.
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Tuesday, October 28th, 2008
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I hate school. I seriously hate school.
I wish that college was like I imagined it, with a bunch of cool people I immediately became bffs with and an awesome boyfriend and way cool classes. I have nothing but the awesome boyfriend, and you know what? Even that is tepid. Sometimes we fight. In my fantasies, my boyfriend and I just make out and have awesome college sex in the dorms, because everyone knows that sex is great with a roommate. She'd put on her headphones and pretend that she couldn't hear us and then we would have awesome sex on the top bunk or something. Instead I'm living in an apartment and I have no roommates, just apartmentmates, and maybe this is a shitload of complaining but tonight I made really awesome Mexican food but I just wished that it was dorm food. I imagine that eating in the dorm is like eating out EVERY NIGHT. You never have to prepare anything and your dishes get done for you. It's not fair that I have to miss out on all this. Plus I am actually fulfilling classes for my major this semester and they all suck balls except for my English class, which of course has nothing to do with my major. So fuck everyone. This is how I feel.
The only reason I am awake right now is because Scott is doing a coloring project he procrastinated on and he's sitting on my bed. He is overheating my feet just the way I like them to be overheated, so I'll let him live. Otherwise I am exhausted and barely functioning.
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Wednesday, September 17th, 2008
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So I've been in my apartment for almost a month now, which means that I am finally established enough to make comments on the situation.
And what I want to say is this:
THE BEST PART OF MOVING OUT IS THE FOOD.
Seriously. My mom used to wave her hands around in complicated geometric shapes and make me think that cooking was so fucking hard that I'd never be able to do it. She told me that grocery shopping was a pain in the ass, time-consuming, and unejoyable. For the last 20 years, I've mainly kept away from the kitchen. I'd make myself a sandwich, but the minute a food item needed more heat than the toaster was able to provide--that was where I drew the line.
Those days are over.
I have made almost everything I can imagine, and it's all been delicious. If I run out of ideas, I take a jaunt over to the spice aisle to get ideas from the prepackaged seasonings. Or I look at the back of a random box and make whatever recipe is there. Or I look on the internet. None of it is hard. Everything tastes good.
The best part--and this is no offense to my dearest mother--is that I make food to my own specifications. I don't have to eat macaroni and cheese if I don't feel like it. If I feel like busting out the stops and making myself a three course meal, I do. If I don't like tomatoes, I never have to buy one in my life. I will never have to endure another watery stew night in the dead of winter. I can put bacon in my pasta.
Inside of me has lived a little chef all this time, and he's just begging to come out. He's Italian, like 50% of my blood, and he has a thick mustache. His name is Mario.
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Sunday, September 14th, 2008
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My mother often tells me that I will always love Scott--that we may break up horribly or go our separate ways but I will always love him. "He's your first love," she says, quite melodramatically.
Scott may be my first boyfriend but he is not my first love. That dubiously honorable title belongs to Cole and his red sans-serif font that blazed like a fire in my 13-year-old heart. And my mother is right: life goes on and Cole and I have long abandoned our internet addictions and fallen out of contact, but I still love him. I love him for absolutely no reason anymore. I love him simply because I loved him first.
Cole and I met on a NeoPets roleplaying guild in November. I was really into the book series "The Dragonriders of Pern". As in really fucking into it. If I thought about it too much, I used to cry in grief that I would never live on the planet Pern. Luckily for me, the internet RP scene at the time was almost dominated by Dragonriders roleplayers, and I stumbled into it easily.
Anyway, I got involved with this guild thing. Cole was just out of the closet as a gay guy, and we really didn't get along. He was trying to figure out how he fit into the social world as a gay person--and the current morphology was "sitcom character." He was determined to be the guy with all the fashion advice and witty reparte. I was about as socially capable as a rock, and unimpressed by his exhortations to wear ribbon in my hair. Somehow, we started talking late at night.
Cole and I had the kind of friendship in which we could spend all day online together, sleep for three hours, and be back for more. We knew absolutely everything about each other. And he must have known I was in love with him, no matter how sneakily I thought I hid it. I used to save our chat logs and pore over them for evidence of reciprocity. By the time I was 15, I was so gone that I was kissing the screen at night when he signed off. We used to joke that if we never found anyone else, we'd eventually marry each other. I wasn't joking. We used to kid that I'd carry his babies if he ever did get into a gay relationship. I wasn't kidding.
Our relationship started to wane when we both turned 16. Cole got a boyfriend and I got a best friend. Our chats online were strained and often ended in complete silence; we were growing apart.
Cole is a mtf transsexual these days, and I don't have a crush on her anymore. But I still carry a big-ass torch for 13, 14, 15, 16-year-old Cole, and I always will, just like my mother says. I think that's romance, right the fuck there.
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My current work has a Halcomb corner, where I have gone and taken Mr. Halcomb's chart and crossed out the misspelling with a red pen and carefully filed it back in the same spot so no one will ever know.
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Wednesday, August 13th, 2008
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I got my tonsils out exactly two weeks ago, and they still fucking hurt--bad. My advice to anyone considering a tonsillectomy is to back out. If it's not completely necessary, the pain you'll experience afterward isn't going to be worth it. Adult tonsillectomies are apparently more painful than giving birth. They are touted as one of the most painful surgeries there is.
Very late in the night (or perhaps very early into the morning) I wake up alone with the pain. There have been several intense moments, several moments in which I have been half-human half-animal, making mangled noises through my ruined throat, and not even a Catholic could question my ape origins. When you are in pain, these noises come from you unbidden and you can't control them. When you are in pain, you can't control yourself. Pain, not love or intellect, rules humanity. Put a person in extreme pain and you'll be surprised at what that person is able to do, is willing to do, is even glad to do if only to stop the pain. Being in pain gives you thoughts that you are ashamed of, makes you do things like creep to the kitchen under the cover of darkness and lift your bottle of liquid vicodin to your mouth and take a long, unmeasured swig. You don't care about overdosing when you are in pain beyond your tolerance threshold. And nighttime is the most primal time anyway; everyone knows that. You can stand, silent, over your family members, alone in your pain, and your mind runs over a thousand thoughts and through a thousand tangents. You find the spots that organized society would like to pretend didn't exist.
I always considered myself to be pretty pain tolerant. I once gashed my knee open to the bone while playing baseball and didn't notice until I'd rounded all the bases and was told "Your pants are soaked with blood." I was eating solid food within two days of getting my wisdom teeth out. I tore several muscles and fractured a bone in my foot, and I walked on it for a week before the pain got bad enough for me to decide to see a doctor. I'm tough. And this tonsillectomy has brought me to my knees. While eating pureed mush--mashed potatoes put through a blender, creamed corn beaten beyond recognition--tears have leaked out of the corners of my eyes from the pure agony of swallowing. When my first scab came off, I bellowed. There was no other word to describe the noise that came ripping out of my lungs, passing through my torn up throat and into the world.
In other news, I got a job as a gymnastics teacher. This probably makes me an extremely hot commodity in the dating world, I think. Once I can talk again, at least. And once I dump that douchebag Scott.
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At this point, I have eaten so much fruit that it will be amazing if the force of my crapping does not expel my intestines. Yesterday, eager to get the jump on my sister, I took it upon myself to eat ALL of the blackberries. About 30-40 blackberries later, I was raring to eat the little moisture pad at the bottom of the carton. I took a violent pass through the kitchen and seized a bowl of strawberries.
"No one eats strawberries in this house, right?" I asked, attempting to absolve myself of guilt for what I was about to do. "Right?" I asked again. Everyone was outside and couldn't hear me, so I decided to take that as a yes. I consumed about 15 strawberries.
For breakfast, my mother made fruit salad (cantelope, peaches, watermelon, grapes, oranges), which I washed down with fruit juice (Dole Orange Peach Mango). The day continued in this horrible vein with pluots, dates, and more fruit salad until I made a crass joke to my uncle about shitting my brains out. Suddenly, my viscera clenched quite tellingly.
Beyond eschewing my digestive health in favor of fruit, life is pretty goddamn boring. I am currently in summer school. My internship ends tomorrow and I still don't have one job offer, though I'm waiting to hear back from several places. My mother is going in for hand surgery on Thursday. Amelia is slightly less gothic. And finally, Scott and I are doing all right, as all right goes. Our current hurdle (or perhaps my current hurdle) is friends. All of Scott's friends hate me and all of my friends hate him. This is because we don't make things easy for each other. This is because we complain about each other constantly and in great quantity to our friends. Thinking about it, and my mother's possible amputation, is making me sick. So I'm going to leave it all at that.
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It's weird how petty all of my problems have become. In the midst of preparing for the rest of my life, for the career that I will likely pursue until I die, my problems are never proportional. I fight with Scott, I worry about a test. I debate how many classes I will take in summer school. But the real problems, even now, still seem like they are still on hold.
It's weird, because I thought that I would undergo some amazing change in from 17 to 20--but I don't know that I have. And I don't know if anyone around me has. Life is slow and tedious, and changes are almost never instant.
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Thursday, March 27th, 2008
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I was going to get rid of my old computer in favor of my new laptop, but I've realized that I want them both. I'm actually scared (I'm at my desktop right now) that my desktop works better than my laptop. The screen is bigger, the keyboard is more familiar, the speakers are 39087234987x better. This is a dilemma, because I promised my laptop to my dad.
I just had an excellent, resume-building volunteer opportunity drop in my lap, and I'm such a self-sabotager that I haven't emailed the guy back yet. He doesn't know that I'm home from my spring break vacation, so I'm using that as my "excuse". I have also come up with thousands of other reasons: it's past office hours, the mobile phone isn't charged so I would have to talk to him in the kitchen where my whole family could listen in. The internet on my laptop is being weird; I don't want to write this email on my old computer. The reality is that I'm terrified that I'm going to fuck this up--that even though he has already given me the opportunity, he won't want to talk to me anymore after he hears my voice, my high-pitched drone that I'm so self-conscious about, that I'm sure will somehow convince this man who has already chosen me to go back on his word and toss me out.
And part of me wonders if he will hear how raw and open I am about this job. How much I really, really fuckin want it. I wonder if he can hear in my voice that I love American Kestrels, that I will spend hours up in the trees with them, that his #1 worry should be getting me off the ladder without a little nestling cupped close to my chest.
And yet another part of me wonders if this is my first baby step off the Road to Being a Doctor, and toward wildlife biology. I am going to be a poor researcher for the rest of my life, I can feel it in my bones.
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Thursday, January 31st, 2008
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I sometimes worry that Scott will leave me without warning. This isn't an irrational fear. I worry that Scott will sit beside a girl every day in his Russian class and gradually, slowly fall in love with her. Eventually the distance separating their two hearts will become too much for him to handle. Will he call me first or rush into her arms with reckless abandon? And what, at that point, is there to say?
Katie, I've met someone else.
It seems lke such a shitty ending to everything that's happened. Like an ellipsis rather than an exclamation point. Like the dying trickle of a mighty river as it crosses the Sahara, or something.
I have this dream that our death will be like a guillotine. No warning, just the cool rushing noise of air and the final strike. I have this thought that it will be totally painless, like the bleeding out will have happened well before that final cleave. I have this idea that I won't be very sad afterward.
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I guess I wrote that a while ago. It came up as a "saved draft". I didn't even know that there was such a thing. I'm not actually--and don't think I ever was--particularly worried that Scott will leave me. I mean, of course he will leave me, or I will leave him, or we will perform some unnecessarily complicated dance resulting in a breakup that's 23.6% Scott, 56.4% me, and 20% magic. But I'm not particularly worried about it. I love that little fucker with all my heart. Today when I woke up and he was wrapped around me and his eyes were closed with those long fringe Lolita lashes, I thought that I was going to explode from being so happy. These disgusting thoughts frequently happen to me when I'm around him.
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Saturday, January 26th, 2008
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I am a lot happier now that school has started, but I also wonder how I had so much "free time". My room is a freaking mess. I need to change the oil in my car (I really need to learn how to do this myself, so it won't be such a big hassle every time). I have to get another job. I should start volunteering at the hospital.
But right now I am in bed, and I am cold, and my hands are cold, and that's all I can focus on.
I am taking:
Physics,
Ornithology,
Writing about Literature,
and Human Anatomy & Physiology
So far, all of these classes are a lot of freaking work. But they're all fun, except for physics. This will be my third attempt at taking physics. My first time was in eighth grade, with Mr. Nuccio. Mr. Nuccio and I agreed that I was just goddamn horrible at the entire subject. My second time was with Mr. Chambers in my junior year of high school. Mr. Chambers was a little more kind to me, and suggested that I could probably master the subject if I paid attention and stopped being a defeatist. Ultimately, he gave up on me. I am back in my sophomore year of college for my third try. This time I am in a lecture hall, so it will probably be a lot more impersonal when I fail out.
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Monday, January 21st, 2008
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I've been out of school for around five weeks now and I can't wait to go back tomorrow. I know this seems impossible, but I think I have actually run out of shit to look at on the internet. Things that used to bring me joy, like actually being home to catch Scrubs at 7:00 in the evenings, are now mundane, run-of-the-mill occurences that are boring.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that this could be the rest of my life: I could get promoted at my nowhere-job and make enough to pay the bills without really thinking about it. No more extraneous thought or preparation, just get there at 8 am sharp. I could dedicate my spare time to becoming a cleaner person. But for some reason, I am saddled with the enormous burden of "motivation".
Motivation says that I will not be happy until I am working in a job that requires all of my attention and spare time and makes me worry constantly. Motivation has doubled my major. Motivation is causing me to look for summer research programs so that this awful lethargy doesn't set in again in a few months.
Fuck.
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Sunday, January 6th, 2008
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I am in love with a boy who lies to me and makes me fucking crazy. I am in love with a boy who hates my science fiction novels, whose hands never stay put. I am in love with a boy who is warm like stones in the sun, whose body is solid and presses against mine like earth. I am in love with a boy whose eyes are the color of grass. I'm in love with a boy who makes me want to commit suicide. Seriously, he makes me want to go to the bathroom right now and run the tap until the water is scalding and just deep enough to brush my knees and then sit down and fuckin' pull the knife and do it. I am in love with a boy who doesn't have any sort of appreciation for life, who barely notices natural beauty and would never want to live with me in a small shack on the side of a mountain. I am in love with a boy who does not understand the leading edge of a hawk's wing, who has never studied the delicate feather whorls there.
I am in love with a boy who is in love with lots of other things, all of which he loves more than he loves me. I am in love with this crazy motherfucker who could drive me to suicide, who could drag me from my dreams of a shack in the forest and into the city.
I frankly don't know why I do it to myself. I'm pretty sure it's no longer the sex, unless I'm deriving some kind of subconscious masochistic pleasure from it all.
I like to sit in the front at movie theaters because I imagine that maybe someone, somewhere, some forlorn forgotten fucker in the back will pay more attention to me than he is paying to the movie. He'll be captivated by some kind of stray arm movement, or maybe the soft oval silhouette of my head against the big screen, and there it will be. He'll never approach me, of course: people like that never have the courage. I'll never know when or why or who. I can only sit in the front and trust in God and blind stupid faith and the complete illogical mess that is the human brain, and know that someday it will happen. And maybe it will happen again and maybe Scott will really quit drugs and maybe my dead bird will burst through the soil in the side yard like a phoenix, like he does so many mornings in my dreams. I keep his cage in the garage. I'm waiting. I really miss you Birde.
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fremescence's journal