February 23, 2013
I feel everything.
I don’t seem to understand my own emotions. All I know is they are too fuckin’ high or too fuckin’ low. They are great and unmeasurable gusts that throw me about, they are high tides, violent waves that crash upon me, sharp and stabbing, prickly things all inside me, choking, scratching and tearing, electrifying, BURNING every fiber of my being, ORGASMIC, all-encompassing burning, fuckin–just too fuckin much.
I feel nothing.
I am void, washed out, dried up with a comforting numbness. I don’t even care if I’ve lost all of my heart.
In the end, I find only my art.
Lately, I’ve been looking at photographs (mostly artistic ones) of “flat-chested” beauties. I think I am one. heheh, but most of the time I don’t.
Barely there breasts are beautiful too!
February 6, 2013
I was upset, very upset. It was 6:15 and I saw the email: “Please answer me. I drove 110 miles to come see you” it read.
I thought he’d been held up by a traffic jam, but it turns out he’d been outside my house–around the corner somewhere waiting for me for over half an hour. There was miscommunication. I told him not to knock if both cars were still in the driveway. Well, it turns out I’d forgotten my bro’s beat-up-and-broken-down BMW is in our driveway. So GB thought it best not to knock. His phone broke so he emailed me from his laptop. How was I supposed to know? I felt terrible.
I was waiting for him to come by so we could fuck. I know, that sounds crude and vulgar but it is what it is. I don’t fuck a lot and I haven’t even mentioned GB ’cause I didn’t even know he existed before my hiatus from bloggieland. But that’s beside the point. I went out to see if he was out there then I realized the message had been sent at 5:34. I replied with various emails on my phone and he said he’d headed back at 6:00. Fuck! I felt a surge of anger, towards myself. Why wasn’t I clear about it. White car, blue van, blah blah. I miscommunication.
I figured since I was outside with the dogs I’d get the mail–use my DBT skills and whatnot. Then it all came rushing in. I started choking, the tears fell and the sobs ran. My frustration had built up, but it wasn’t just that, it was today. Today is the day. Specifically.
One year ago today, I hung out with Monkey Man for the last time. We watched the Superbowl with his friends, ate brisket (first time I ate red meat after years), we cuddled, I played a prank on his friend and broke my arm; said friend’s girlfriend made tea for us while I took one of Monkey Man’s painkillers and smoked a few puffs of his weed. The night didn’t end well but it was beautiful. It really was. It was just chill. Simple. Nice. It had been a long time since I’d had a relatively peaceful evening hanging out with him, so this night stood out and little did I know I’d be the last night I’d have with him. I thought “yes, he’s getting better”. And my fears of getting a call, that call you get when an addict finally does it–all of them dispelled that night.
But I’m reminded of a Peaches song, “Fuck the pain away”. That’s what I wanted to do today. It’s just that… I wanted to curl up in someone for just one moment. Instead, I crossed the street, key in hand, and noticed a dead squirrel. I looked at it, took a picture with my phone, and for an instant I felt ok, not because of the poor squirrel’s fat but the sense of peace its little head held. It almost looked like it was dreaming.
I thought, maybe that’s what Monkey Man felt before he passed? I hope…
addendum: A cat has been nibbling at it since then. C’est la vie.