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If I weren’t so self-involved, I’d ask you how you were. I’d ask you how you feel about the stimulus package and Oprah and landscaping and your family. I’d remember your birthday, and I’d say, Happy Birthday. I’d recognize you as someone not to be stepped on, someone worthy of common decency.


As it is, why would I consider you? I barely noticed you were there. I didn’t realize I’d told you the same story twice, but let’s face it, you could use the repetition. Of course, I don’t think of your impressions or how you might perceive me. Does it matter? Because you need answers for your simple mind, I’ll answer: no, it does not matter.


If I weren’t so self-involved, I’d forget about you and stop boring everyone with the details. I’d look outward and be more interested in what my real friends are doing, how they are. Instead, I say, can you believe him? I say, don’t you think my response was biting? I don’t see them in front of me, and that means I am not giving them common decency and maybe I deserve what I get.


As it is, I feel guilty. Sorry, all.

because no one else has ever called me or my writing gentle
because you don’t tire of me
because you recognize insufferable positivity is positively insufferable
because you encourage me to curse
because somehow, some way, you get me
because you pacify my angst with your words and tell me
there, there
it’s not so bad
you’re not so bad

Due warning: this is NOT a creative or funny post. Unless you want to be subjected to paragraphs and paragraphs of endless venting and bitching, go ahead and move on to someone else’s blog and come back here soon. I adore you, dear reader; I just have issues that the medication is not smothering at the moment.


So my horoscope says I will be especially aggressive this Thursday and I think, oh poor world, you’re in for it today. Ask anyone. Ask Bryan. I stay aggressive. I stay offended.


(Okay, granted, Bryan is not the best person to ask because he truly is constantly offensive to me. He’s so judgmental and abrasive. For example, I invited him to come to my parents’ house this weekend and they are without electricity because of the ice storm and he was saying really appalling things like, “we can go up on Saturday instead of Friday, if that helps. I’ll help your mother in the kitchen.” I don’t think I’ve ever felt so berated in my life. Except for that time when Bryan was like, “medicatedlady, I’ll help you move, no problem.” Why can’t he stick to NICE, pleasant things like accusing me of rapid cycling when I am clearly unipolar?)


I have been short with my mother the last two nights because 1) she wouldn’t just tell me how the gas heat in her house worked, and 2) my father starts talking in the background and laughing loudly every time my mother is talking to me on the phone and she’s like, “did you hear what your daddy just said?” I tell her, “no, I’m on the phone with you.” What’s really awful about this is my mother is truly, truly the sweetest lady ever (ask anyone, ask Bryan).


And then I have *minor* resentment issues with the potential loves of my life because I want fire and sparks and someone who actually calls me once in a blue moon and who I don’t expect to just call me out of the blue one day to tell me he’s back in Japan and oh, he didn’t have a chance to tell me beforehand but I was a good person to “hang out” with. And then I’ll be angry. I’m already angry, a sort of a pre-emptive rage/resentment combo that brings up my rage/resentment concerning other assholes who have sinned against me. What keeps going through my head is I can’t even say we’re friends because I think I was just someone to kill time with. I’m apparently only worthy of being someone to kill time with and I am angry about it.


No. I’m bitter about it.


So, world, I am rooting for you. I sincerely hope you can withstand my rampage. I’ve had too much caffeine already, world. That’s probably not a good sign either. I am trying to stifle myself with lots of food and ice cream and creating toilet seat flair on facebook, but I don’t think it’s working. But, fear not, world, my next doctor’s appointment is tomorrow.

I remember what you said about falling in love before I knew what was happening.


New loves

without embodiment

aside from my imagination.


The most fulfilling part

of dreaming

is before you wake up.


Let me sleep for a bit longer.

If I took you on

confronted you

with what I want

would you want the same?


I’m in a maze and I’ve forgotten that if you trace your path along one side of the maze, you can find your way out. How do I remember? What wall is there to cling to?


Oh, dear reader. Kinds souls, you are. I don’t understand dating and requisite rules of the game. I want to play but am still catching on, waiting for someone to look at my hand and tell me what my best move is. I have to learn to stand on my own, but don’t feel I have the skills.


Also, I want a rebound-good-time. socratesoul, we seem to be two peas.

I knew there would be nothing between us, when you said I was easy to talk to, that you were comfortable telling things to me. Too close to the words he said, and I knew you were a different face, a different name, even a different man, but also, the same. He would tell me things I didn’t want to know. Things that would have made me happier if I didn’t know. Girls, drugs, independence. I’d nod reassuringly and then, die a little inside. Take the words like a dagger in the heart and smile, betraying myself over and over again. You. You want to talk for hours. You want to laugh for hours. But you throw in things, don’t you, just like he did to be sure to push me away. Girls. Distance. Goals. To be sure I know you won’t let me in. It pains me to know you can’t see past my lies and know, in your heart and conscience, you should let me go because I won’t let you go. I will hate you soon because you think, like he did, that telling me what you want and don’t want absolves you of any pain I might inflict on myself in your honor.

It helps to remember it’s a numbers game. Not the way my friend, Bryan, counts numbers, adds them together, until they equal something calming to his brain. Instead, one has to remember that statistically speaking, the odds are against you anyway.


Writing is a skill. The more you do it, the better you become. Still, it’s also something more, especially if you are exploring yourself creatively. Chances are, most of what you writes is crap, but sometimes, there’s something special. And anyway, what you write means something to you nearly every time. Which statistically, is astounding considering that many other things tend to be more unlikely to happen every time. Climax if you’re a woman, for example. Or finding a/the right sort in a sea of bad, not-right sorts.


It’s a toss of the coin everyday to try despite the odds. A 50-50 chance that I’ll perserevere. But the odds change all the time, from moment to moment. A favorable probability is likely to become an unfavorable outcome in a matter of seconds.


For this moment, I’m looking up.

SOB with me

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