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it was a medium light mid morning. the sky was white. there were no storms. why the fuck weren't there more storms. It felt like every place she came to, it had some fucking drought - but then she remembered that California was kind of still in a drought. she didn't know. she didn't keep up with anything unless it came over the narrow feed she had on zuck's other tool: IG. she mostly watched environmental doom and stuff about the hell of loving an avoidant man.
but she couldn't keep buying it.
well, she was buying it, but she shouldn't be.
Everyone on this street has white cars. she only likes white in one car: a bmw. she's not sure why. perhaps she would pay an analyst to fathom it out.
now, instead of cat pee, she bitched about the chair squeaking. and you're going to want to know about the peace lily. it's going the way of the Norfolk pine folks. but let's not look at it too hard.
and it tortured her.
she used it to torture herself.
that she was probably correct.
she had indeed known it while it was happening, but couldn't stop it.
she cared too much - it mattered too much - and then imploded in stale hot pus
she'd never tried to spell pus before and was surprised there was only one s, but not that surprised. she was - say it with me - the youngest spelling bee champ ... the smartest...
all of it
and she sits here
maybe even kind of pretty still at times
but she still hasn't taken a shower since July 25th. she wouldn't tell just anyone that. she'd never done that before - refused bathing. she wondered what the fuck it meant, but remembered when mark had been pushed into the shower by uncle Scott - he hadn't thought he was depressed but they all had - when he was a kid.
she's old.
she'll tell you again.
does it matter? it feels like her fucking everything is a four year old. and the modern wisdom says that indeed there is a four year old inside her running the show. and that the way to grow up is to embrace and listen and give time to this four year old.
she'd rather drink
and write about being scared
and how he didn't love her.
but sure, let's address the four year old for a second - see if it works - like prayer: don't knock it until you try it.
so the little girl - what would you like to say ? you have the keyboard.
"I love you and I'm mad that you didn't try harder to get him back. he was so nice."
thanks for loving me. that means a lot. you get on my mobile phone and text him every time I'm drunk. how do you think I didn't try? what had I been supposed to do? why do you care?
"you were supposed to stop being so fucking brittle. you were supposed to be real in front of him. you were supposed to say what you wanted. you were supposed to talk to him. you were supposed to be brave and go 'hey I need to back up - I've been acting like the perfect girlfriend. I'm not. I'm me.'"
it doesn't matter anymore, but you're right. I'm sorry. I don't think he cares anymore honestly. it wasn't that deep to him.
"he wanted to love you. you just scared him."
ok. let's say something nice. I'm already down kid. I appreciate the cold truth. very nice very nice.
"sy words and all that. you are the coolest . he had no idea."
it's like I made you say that.
"you and your lame jokes."
I try to laugh. I try to make fun of myself so it doesn't feel so lonely.
"I know."
now that you're so wise, tell me - four year old me - how do I get over this? we find ourselves again devastated by a brilliant man who wants nada to do with us because I was too afraid to say "I took a shit." or fart. or something.
"you lost him because you wanted something he couldn't give you. you wanted self worth. he was turned off by your needing it from him."
thanks. I get that.
so?
"remember. just remember."
little fucking sphinx.
"you love me though."
always
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she wonders how she really will do it though. she's wary of some metaphysical talk to your inner child - befriend it - feel your feelings get them out - think positive... because she's old and she's done it before.
what she wants more than anything on planet earth is to call him up and say "hey, what up. Georgia's looking good this year." and him laugh at the irony of her giving a fuck about Georgia's silver britches and resume.
she can dream all she wants. she can sit in the empty stadium all she wants. she can talk to empty blond tiny ghosts all she wants. yesterday, she had had a project - she actually had said almost out loud, "he solves it by getting out of the house, I'm going to do it too."
and she went to Homegoods to get some new glasses. she didn't find the exact right kind and the expensive vodka sauce she got wasn't good like the last sauce she got that wasn't good.
she went to bed early as usual reading a mediocre Liza Minelli book. she was only on page 71, maybe it would be less twee going forward - but she suspected that was the schtick.
she pictured him still drinking coffee puttering around his house - reading the inter webs, playing his mind games, drumming up some female company, eating his farmer's market largess. he was going to get the cheeseburger after four and his kids were going to be going to uni's soon.
her part? he had liked her. if that mattered. he had started to see she was cracking but didn't want to talk or deal with it. she wanted to just have him deal with it - just shake him and have him go, "ok, you're it. I'll stop looking for a while" - spit it out like a pinball.
instead, it made her laugh to be so fucking receptive. she had told you about the troubadour that haunted her right? from the time when all those sons of Eleanor of Aquitaine were going around grabbing power - and troubadours were often spies. this one celebrated brad Pitt famous handsome one got caught, and he died by smashing his head against the stone wall of his prison.
for now, she was just taking the meals through the bars.
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