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I love playing on words.
dipshit once teased that that was a macon trait.
I miss dipshit, but I can't think about it or it drives me to despair. I flirt with new potentials on the dating app, but I'm so not at all going in for the kill unless one knocks it out - so I guess it's better than nothing.
is it?
yesterday and the day before I don't really remember leaving the house. I was just pissed off that it wasn't raining and that drinking to numb my pain was lost to me - no fun at all with the fat jab - just a headache and a nap and some wicked heartburn.
it amuses me. to be sober and not even have food as a solace. I drank a dr. pepper as a treat and had to pour half of it out. I'm finally one of those who thinks sodas are too sweet. fucking yay. I'm on my way to as much beauty as a 55 year old can muster.
someone with killer fucking cheekbones.
thanks mum.
and I'm tired of being mad at my mom. mostly because it's tool old. I'm too old. I mean it's real. the anger is covering the pain of someone never hugging me never asking "how are you really?" or even "how are you". It's more and always performing.
maybe I should just stop mentioning it. maybe it will go away. I've kind of given up hope that it will ever be anything rahl - and thus that makes me uninterested in the "hey, how's your day going? did you go to planet fitness. Oh I'm fine. thanks. just a million things I can never tell you because you'll never understand. bye. thanks for the check."
and a little red truck is picking up the neighbors discarded shit - like a broken chair and a lawn mower. it reminds me of my dad. fucker.
but that's all in the past.
now, I'm a cat lady with trapped justice. too sensitive. too everything. just waiting to be acknowledged for my above average slightly beauty and quirkiness. yawn.
is that really all I am? I don't want to cry though. it's easier to be numb. alcohol (an arabic word) was so useful in that sense.
and I think I'm going to wilmington this weekend. I'm not sure why. it's a lot of expense, and does she really love me - the birthday girl? I'm hoping. she's one of the people who saw me, and god that must be respected. I'm thinking of going a day early so I can absorb. I'm thinking of getting a place that used to be an inn - a place I like the architecture of - a place with a clawfoot tub.
natch.
and I wonder if we had still been together in our shallow surface bad-fucking relationship if I would have gotten you to come with me. Traditionally, you seemed up for anything, but maybe you would have been 'nah' by then. it would have been our fifteen months - like babies, we'd measure in months until after 24.
ouch.
and it doesn't hurt as much to remember what I lost with you. it was just like my mom - only potential - nothing real anyway. and I performed like a douche bag.
but I won't be a fucking dick to myself. I wanted you. you would have fit. you could have fit. we could have had one fucking sober convo that could have just diced shit up, but instead.
we're nada.
and my aunt told me that I might get $100K from her will. that's not really enough to say "bitches I have it made" but maybe it will buy me a tiny bit of independence before I either have to off myself or become a ward of the state - getting my ass wiped by robots. unpaid robots.
Maybe I'll learn to personify one of them and put a pink lipstick mark on it so I can pretend it cares. like that wire mommy.
nothing really to say.
it rained. it won't rain again for a long time.
but it was a good reign.
and I'm sorry.
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