Wednesday, May 28, 2003

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I hate this town. I fucking hate this fucking, shit-hole of a town. I'm sad and I'm tired and I'm lonely and I'm fighting the urge to cry. It's pretty outside and I don't even care. It's like I'm looking out at a drab, boring canvas that doesn't hold much interest for me. And unlike in Voyage of the Dawn Treader, stepping through the windowpane will not land me in a wonderful new world. It will just give me a broken leg.

Which is still better than a heartache.

I will never date anyone in this city again. Ever. I don't even want to talk to anyone new in this city ever again. I don't want to hope and want and feel the lonely go away and then have it shoved back down my throat. God damnit, now I am crying.

I couldn't sleep. I'm all alone in this fucking house. I can't exactly take the mice out to cuddle. Jason's asleep. Martha and Katy are at work. Anyone else, I have to walk the line of how much I once wanted them, or how much they once wanted me, or how many scars we share together that we haven't figured out how to meld. Or how much I want them now to where I can hardly stand it.

Look at where I am again, everybody! That same fucking place where I have to hide away until it all heals over because it just hurts too fucking much. I'm so fucking smart when I write. I tell myself the whole truth. "Aren't you a lover who has not yet learned to love in time?" Oh, isn't that me? Isn't it just? Why can't I ever see it in time? Why do I do this to myself?

When I was in France, that first time, I thought that I would just take my backpack and walk off into Europe. Just walk off and disappear and never look back. But, I'm not made that way. "I've still got the scars that the sun won't heal" - Bob Dylan. I want to just walk away from it all. I want to go insane and do drugs and rot out all of it. I did that last summer, though. I can't really do that again. I should, but I can't. My body is starting to feel too strong again despite all the hurt I've poured into it.

If only something could work. Just once. Just one little time. Is it really too much to ask? I know I'm not such a bad person. Why is it that I fall into three camps: sister, friend, mastabatory fantasy? And, fuck, even when the last two come together it doesn't mean shit. All it means is that someone is willing to drool over me at a distance, fuck me if they get the chance to, and pretend it didn't happen. Yes, it sounds crass, but that's all it ever seems to boil down to for me.

Who are these women that men will die for? Who are these women that men love? Who are the ones the poets write to? I am a poet. I write to these women, myself. And to the men, too. But, what of that... even those people who make me burn the brightest, who make me write myself to flames... they think nothing of it. Nothing. I write beautiful things for them and they do not care. Doesn't everyone want to be immortalized in art? It's not everyone I can do that with, just the ones who catch me the right way. Just the ones who have that beauty that I need to taste. I always feel like Yeats writing to Maud Gonne. He wrote things to make my heart break. And she never blinked an eye.

It is no one's fault and I'm sorry for my hatred and my rage. I am. It's not going to fester this time. The air's already been cleared. But how nice it must be to have someone care for you so devotedly, to know that they are there waiting in the wings! To know it and still have some other rush in to see you like the cavalry. Tell me this isn't what everyone longs for. To know that when one person leaves, that other one will still be there to make you feel special. No matter the cost to her own fucking heart.

With a few liberties for changing to the feminine, this seems all I can say right now. I'm going to work on a fucking, sad story. And laught at this fool who just send me a note on the Onion. Don't even waste my time.

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one woman loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid her face amid a crowd of stars.

Thursday, May 22, 2003

Icky sore throat. I left my coughdrops at Chris' house last night and now I'm waiting for him to wake up so I can get them. Well, and we're supposed to have a "picnic" (suitably in quotes since it's nasty rainy out) and see the Matrix as well. I couldn't sleep too late today with my throat hurting, so I just gave up and got up. And now I'm doped up on sudafed and tylenol and I'm twiddling my thumbs.

I should be packing for the trip home this weekend, but why would I want to do that? Plan ahead? Pshaw!

So, drama decided to rear it's ugly head yesterday. My friend Christopher decided we need to have "a talk." Supposedly, I've been very mean to him in the past few weeks. Let us just ignore the fact of how inconsiderate he's been to me in the past two _years_, eh? I managed not to laugh out loud on the phone and we had a decent conversation, though he did piss me off more than once and he did make me cry. Bastard. It's not very hard to do these days, I admit. But still. I guess that drama's handled and now we're going to "work on being friends again". Whoopty-woo.

And my friend Mary's having a terrible time with romance. Poor thing. Had a long talk with her yesterday.

And then Chris and I went out for sushi and up popped, just like a fucking miracle, my ex Heather. Looking far too cute. Exes should never look so cute, yet they always manage to. I guess we're going to hang out next week. It was nice to see her and she's sweet, even though she did completely blow me off last fall. I don't really have a problem finding cute girls, they all just turn out lame. Alicia's new thesis: the attractive women I have loved, and all their lame shit. The men, I'm afraid, would be more of an encyclopedic series. Well, no, that's not true, I only have 2 real exes for men. I have a handful of hook-ups, but there's no emotional shit with that.

Speaking of those male exes - one of them is great. I love B to death. Brandon for those of you who don't go on initial letters. We get along a bazillion times better now than we ever did when we were together.

And Richard and I at least have psychic radar to keep ourselves from running into each other. It's the best case scenario for us, I think. I don't want to have to live through the drama that would probably ensue if we saw each other.

Okay, this got off track... all I was going to talk about was the weird drama that cropped up yesterday and the good day I had outside of that drama. But, no, I had to whine. It's the medicine, I swear it is.

Oooo, better note! Chris gave me watermellon. It was the last part of my birthday present. Hot damn, how sweet is that? Little gestures like that just mean the most, I swear they do. It's still in his fridge, but I'm going to encorporate it into the picnic today. When he gets up. Poor, poor insomnia-lad.

Tuesday, May 20, 2003

Ah, the joy of doing absolutely fucking nothing.

It's my first true day of vacation and I've been sufficiently indolent. I'll do some actual work tomorrow, but I'm enjoying the brainlessness of today.

Now, I have leftovers to eat. And maybe I'll run back to Target and spend more of my giftcard. What joy!

Friday, May 16, 2003

Wow. In just one day I survived a massive, raging hangover. And a monsoon.

I swear, a monsoon really did hit Atlanta. That's the only way I can explain the gigantic pools of standing water that sloshed out of the sky late last night. And fucked up my car. Yes, now my car makes this weird sound when it gets put in reverse. Oh, what fucking joy! Like I have any money to get my car fixed. Thank you, stupid fucking rain.

On a better note, good class today. And after my three tomorrow I get to party like a mad woman. Yes, birthay part 3 will be landing tomorrow night.

Yeah, birthday!

I'm a bit too full from veggies at the moment. Had collards and corn and mac & cheese from Market One. I feel like I could sleep again right now, but Katy and I are supposed to hang later, so I need to stay awake.

Thursday, May 15, 2003

And today my brain feels like:

a) an ashtray
b) the shriveled up worm in the bottom of the tequila bottle
c) a tangled mess of nerve endings and alcohol
d) all of the above

Aside from the fact that I didn't actually have a cigarette last night (I don't think), my body really doesn't like me very much. I drunk way, way, waaaaay too much on my birthday last night and ended up puking and passing out. Jason and Chris cared for me like sweethearts....though I still managed to fall all over myself. I felt so bad when I woke up this morning I thought I was going to die. But then I realized I was with Chris and it really wouldn't be very polite to die in his bed.

Manners while hungover? How silly of me.

At the moment, I'm not quite sure if anything in my body is functioning properly. I managed to survive class. Somehow. And I'm going to go see my friend Mary in just a bit.

Other than that, there will be a small break in birthday activities until Saturday. Just enough time to let my body and brain re-wire themselves. Right now, I'm heading off to Target. My sis gave me a $50 gift card and I think shopping will help improve my jangled nerves quite a bit.

Despite the body torture, I do so love birthdays.

Monday, May 12, 2003


I think I'm feverish. And my toe's about to fall off. I swear it is.

I'm going to take my horse-tranquilizer pain pills that are normally reserved for nasty-bad cramps. And I'm going to crawl under my comfy blanket and sleep. I've reverted to infancy, really. At the moment, I'm refusing to make my bed because it's cozier to sleep on _top_ of the soft comfortor with a just a regular fuzzy blanket for sheets.

Now, if only my toe would stop hurting.

And tonight on the Discovery Channel: foxes who chew off their toes when little kids squash them. Graaarl indeed.

Must take delirium to bed. Going to my favoritest place tomorrow before work: the library! All to find kid's books that an online friend recommended. And French grammer books to tutor a certain petit chou.
Oh, crumbunnies and garglesnaps! I just remembered:

My bastard ex still has my copy of the collected Weetzie Bat books. That rotten ass-whore.

Richard does _not_ deserve Witch Baby. Or even Cherokee Bat. They're mine, damnit. And I'm never going to get it back...

I'm going to have by a new copy.

That fucking, fuckety prick. My, I'm glad I just have indignant rage towards him tonight.
My toe hurts.

One of my ardorable first-graders, Sophie, was giving me a hug after class and decided it was a good idea to jump on my sandaled toe in sneakers. My toe then started bleeding and is now purple. I'm going to lose part of the nail, definitely.

I told my boss and she laughed. I have my first real injury so now I'm supposedly broken in! Hah.

As if teaching with massive hangovers isn't enough of a break-in....

The last week of teaching is nice. It's a weight off when you finish each class. Once I wrap up tomorrow's classes, it'll be smooth sailing until Saturday. Not that it's ever _easy_ to finish a class, it's just that my Wed-Fri schedule is so relaxed with one class a day. Much less energy required than with a double or triple.

Oh, and guess what? 25 hours and counting until my birthday! Whoopty-woo!

Beer. Making me sleepy now. And toe....throbbing.

Sunday, May 11, 2003

Not dark yet, but getting there again...

Actually, no, that's not quite right. I'm just in a foul, muzzy mood. A bit too much alcohol. A bit too many emotions running high. A house with no air save for a fan. And a nasty cramp in one leg. I got up and started cursing because it knotted up so badly.

And, now, I'm sitting around completely stark naked. Still hot. I need to drink water.

I've decided that, at moments, I hate quite a few of my so-called friends. Everyone's so self-centered and "intense." When, really, we're all just like the poor little bird that got left out of his cage too long...and flew away. Or crawled into a rafter and died.

I wonder which of us will start stinking the place up first?

I, for one, refuse to stagnate. Time to find fresh ground.