Reality is a bother.

I woke up 37 minutes before my alarm was scheduled to go off. Not enough time to go back to sleep, but I didn't want to get up. I was awake, but I didn't get out of bed. I raged against my alarm clock, I pouted, I squirmed. I did not masturbate, but I thought about it briefly. I got out of bed and had to find clothes to wear, I should have ironed, but I hate ironing. I got into the shower, it was cold and I became completely awake. I hate washing my hair. I wish someone would wash my hair for me, not even in a sexual way, just in a happy helpful way. I didn't get soap in my eye but I put my shampoo in after I put my face wash on. I usually shampoo before I put my face wash on. After rinsing and washing body and hair I decided to try and masturbate in the shower, like the way they do in movies. I was naked and wet, but I didn't feel sexy at all, I felt tired and silly. I even tried to talk dirty to myself, using funny voices and I ended up having a conversation with myself about the pitfalls of direct realism. 

Untitled

"I could have been better. I'm sorry I'm broken. I should have tried harder. I will be different. I will be better. For you, I'll try."

And you cry.

Sometimes you lie and you hope this isn't one of those times.

"You are spoiled, useless, ineffective, weak, stupid."

And you cry harder.

Recovery isn't an end, it's a process. 

"How can you expect anyone to love you, to know you and to appreciate you, when you don't love, appreciate or know yourself?"

And you cover your face with you hands in shame and indignation. Looking for the words that will make everything ok. 

We always hurt the ones we love, usually we hurt ourselves first.

Vodka Quiet.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be better."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then why won't you love me?"

"I tried. There isn't any reason why I shouldn't love you. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"I hate you." 

"I hope that's true. It would make tomorrow easier for you."

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It was quiet. It was getting quieter with each drink.
It was getting vodka quiet.

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"Did you ever love me? When did you love me?"

"I loved you when we would drive and you would hold my hand. I felt close with you. I loved you then."

"That's stupid, what is that? Who are you? What kind of person loves someone when they are driving!"

"You asked me, I tried to answer."

"No, no you didn't answer. You are a selfish bitch. What do you think love is? It isn't some abstract lofty idea, it isn't in any fucking book, it isn't found in anything intellectual, it's a feeling, a feeling. You still have feelings don't you? Don't answer that. I don't care. I don't care anymore. I am the best thing that will ever happen to you. You won't regret this now, but one day you will. I hope it fucking breaks your heart."

"There is nothing wrong with you."

"I know! of course I know that, I'm not the idiot. You are the idiot!"

"I know."

"You picked the perfect fucking time to tell me, I really wanted to see this movie and now I can't. Just because you aren't emotional doesn't mean you aren't feeling something. You aren't who I would ever see myself with. I'm glad it's over. You aren't even my type, I don't know why I ever asked you out in the first place."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you aren't. Don't say that. Because you aren't."

"I'm not sorry."


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Leaving takes a lot longer than it seems like it would.

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"Is this why you brought your own car? You knew this whole time you were going to pull this shit?"

"Yes."

"You are a fucking bitch."

"I'm leaving."

"You're not going to say anything else? Just leave?"

"Yes. I stopped having anything to say to you months ago. You just didn't notice."

"So fucking profound! You really think you're something special don't you? You're not different, you aren't special, you aren't "above" anything. What are you even doing with your life? You have no direction, nothing. You aren't anything, you're a fucking loser. And you know it."

"Bye. Take care."

----------------------

Vodka quiet.

I curl up on the couch. I play music loudly and get very drunk.


I'm not much, but I'm all I've got.

Daydreams

His mother killed herself after he was born.

She was the result of a failed abortion.

Needless to say, the fetal position was never very consoling to either of them.

He played Gymnopedie No.1 and she cried. It was the collection of subtle movements that caught her breath, held her captive, frightened and excited her all at once.

She wrote him letters after he went to sleep and slipped them in his jacket pocket that was hung neatly on the door, so he wouldn't forget it when he left in the morning.

He read the notes as he took the morning train to work.

And during the day she thought of all the lovely parakeets they would own over the years. She brushed her hair and named them one by one. She walked around the lake and thought of the children they would have. A boy, maybe a girl - maybe both. She smiled, what a thought. How much happiness could one heart contain.

"Can we atleast be friends?"

"We were never friends."

I was just attractive enough to make things complicated.

I would say I'm barely attractive.

Cute but not beautiful.

I always had a very good way of speaking to people.
A way that made them feel safe.
A way that made them care for me.

I was the puppy you fed at night.
The track you let play through because it isn't horrible and you know the next track is better.
The body that you held closest for a moment.


The blurry eyed intensity at 4 am was always my best look.


I am the one you have until you get married to someone else.

untitled

"Do you think if I wanted you for my own, I would encourage you to fuck other men?"

"No, I guess not. So you wouldn't date me, but you would fuck me?"

"Of course I would fuck you. I dream about fucking you, kissing you, touching you."




When I was in grade school I wrote a note to Christian. I put it on his desk after lunch. The note said:

I like you. If you like me, meet me by the third tree, the tree without any leaves, in the playground.

At 2:15 p.m. I rushed to the tree. I stood under the tree quietly and waited for him to like me.

He never showed up.

In my mind I thought of a million reasons why he hadn't shown up. And finally settled on the notion that he had never received the note. If he had read my note, he would have shown up. I was convinced.


I have never been comfortable with rejection.


So I live in my dream world. I make up scenarios and fantasies. I pretend not to want, not to need, not to feel too much, not to ask anything, expecting nothing.

The truth is, my heart is broken. There is nothing that can change that. No one that can fix it.

I will go on falling in love from a distance, where it is in my control. I will continue having sex with men I don't love or particularly like.




When I was 7 I had a fish, I prepared the fish tank, decorated the fish environment, named the fish, made a place on my shelf where I could see the fish. One day the fish tank was missing. I asked my mother what happened to it. She told me she had removed the tank a week earlier. When I asked her why, she said, because the fish had died.

Biography of a different kind

I hold my breath, I try to think of something else. The doctor says it’s not pain, only pressure.

“You’re going to feel a lot of pressure…”

And I'm thinking about when I stayed in the hospital with my grandfather. I met his nurses and doctors. 

In that hospital room I made up songs and drew pictures. The hospital smell clung to my clothes. And seeped into my skin.

It was in these moments, I told my grandfather not to die. With the sincere honesty of a child I told him,

“You can’t die, not yet, you have to wait until I do something great.”

And with a gesture I didn’t fully understand, he held my hand and smiled.

That complete acceptance, it’s rare.

This is pain, the agony and finality of loss.

He had grown up during the depression. He began working when he was 6 years old selling newspapers and roofing. His father had left his mother with 7 children. He survived 2 wars. When my mom told him she was thinking of adopting a baby, he looked at her and said, "Bring her home."

For 6 months I had no name.

The nurses called me “The Little Princess”. The doctors didn’t think I would survive.

Don’t waste a name on something that won’t live.

I was the princess of a kingdom of the weak and the wounded.

The heiress to a fortune of misfortune.

My lungs breathed in spite of, my heart pumped in urgency.

They tell me, that when he saw me for the first time, he held picked up my hand and said,

“She’s got a lot of growing to do.”

There are many things that are incomplete and eroded in my memories.

He named me Lola, because I was too small for a longer name.