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and the lesbians were cutting their grass with the electric lawn mower. the shorter-haired one again. it delighted me that they cut the area around the stupid street bush again. seriously. who plants a bush by the street? the only excuse is that it enforces some bullshit property boundary. or maybe it's not bullshit. maybe every fucking inch counts in the coming war.
it was hard not to go into third person.
fuck. another neighbor - the worst yard was getting cut - this time by an older woman on a riding lawn mower. she could be a lesbian - sure. apparently, we're all on a scale.
I'm fascinated that the men I love love women so much - but I don't love women - trust them so much. neither does my sister. neither does my mother - as evidenced by my mother's response to her voided passport snafu, "if it had been a man, they would have let me through. it's those fucking bitches."
and that was last year - last march - or was it April - or was it may?
before I knew noel existed - ah you knew I couldn't do a piece without that bloke didn't you. I'm still fucking sprung like dung. today, at 7am - the vulnerable waking up hour - I thought of texting him, "are you coming down today? a bitchin' special at macon bagel this weekend" - or something workshopped with robots for syntax.
but fuck.
how many fucking jabs can I take at the tar baby.
and I don't think it's racist. the concept of punching something and the harder you punch it, the more stuck you get and messy.
and I've punched so hard. I've wanted him back so badly. I've wanted to edit all the things - stay for chili, offer not to come, explain that I'm vulnerable around the fam but thanks, tell him if he's tired, let's skip it - and on and on and on and on
this time last weekend, I was down.
fucking down.
I was in Athens. I was about to leave for good. I was in the small sad weird grey tastefully decorated air bnb having to try to accept again that it was over. oh Morrissey, "I know it's over still I cling. I don't know what else I can do. it's over it's over it's over it's over. I know it's over, but it never really began, but in my heart it was soooo real, you even spoke to me and said 'if you're so clever..."
and on and on.
he didn't like my music.
he felt critical in a way that I wasn't strong enough to 'whatever dude' it.
he seemed to always think I was some maga libertarian asshat
he never complimented. he never said he was glad I existed.
and on and on
but li po fuck
he was someone I would have taken all the annoying no-touching flaws I saw and skitter them to 'not important' because I got to be this man's
what?
what would I have ever gotten to be with noel? I would have gotten to be this man's latest attempt to not feel so lonely.
to feel novel and fucked for a bit.
he never lied to me.
he wasn't seeing anyone else when I asked him in that first month.
he did want a long term relationship.
he didn't want me.
he doesn't want me.
I can cry about it for five thousand more essays.
fuck it.
glad to be able to do so.
glad I can write. glad I can feel.
glad I tried.
and so very sad.
I got a travis mcgee mystery at the library yesterday.
I'll read it. I realized it's him I want to be with - not the mystery really.
and even though I write like that person that wrote "I like dick" - I can't stand to read writing that is compared to mine. it feels too indulgent and dense, and I find I'm not engaged in the game - I don't care about the plot - I don't care about the person. I wouldn't want a beer with them.
but I'd love a cool girl. someone to smoke pot with and talk about men and then not talk.
the best
being able to not talk
and be with them.
god I miss you.
the professor sent me flowers yesterday.
it was weird, but kind I guess - of course it's kind. he said in the card - I read this one - I ws curious - it said something like 'I want to fuck you and I'll love you always." I was inspired to send him a boob pic - even though my boobs are to the fucking navel, it's my best look - the skin - the naughtiness the flowers.
I sent noel a boob pic in Athens.
I would say something like "I'm sure he thought..."
but I have no real idea - no idea if he even saw it.
it was desperate. do I need to even say that? I guess to let you know the narrator isn't a fool.
well, she's a wise fool.
let's hope she gets wiser by the second.
but at least July was over. the calendar picture was prettier by far - the July one had been all spikes and desert. August was pink and blousy.
none of it mattered to hear as much.
she wasn't going to get wise today. she was still
"he was unique. he was not perfect. he was interesting. I wanted more time to love him."
and it was weird to see that I'm bleeding again and interesting to note that a big part of me was like "I'm still in the game!"
the estrogen game?
who knows.
who knows.
who knows.
who knows.
he does.
I don't.
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