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How dare I cry again. How dare I feel sorry for myself.
it's been too long. It should be over. I should be through this. I kept thinking it was getting so much better, and then wilmington plunges me again into gloom.
and I won't blame a fucking town. I blame seeing Claire and Lance and remembering how I was disdainful of my marriage and couldn't understand why single people didn't realize how stupid it was most of the time.
but the times that it's not - the times when you have someone to hug when your cat dies - someone to attend awkward things with you - someone to tell you have cancer. someone to pay attention - even if it's just "oh she's home."
and it's great to be alone. I fucking love it. I very much remember the hell of being with someone that I tolerated and didn't love and never would. The most I could hope from Andrew was settling in to grooves. his music sucked. Leon thought my music sucked.
being around lance, I realize that I just don't have any friends who expose me to music. I don't know. who gives a fuck. I know I'm depressed when I haven't used my fucking Spotify subscription in a good while. and depressed. maybe it's just the fat jab giving me anhedonia. maybe it's that I've reckoned that I'm unable to move towards my grand career in writing. I think it sucks when I reread it and that I'm delusional. I rarely reread it. and I harp on it because
what else to I have.
Dobby got poison in his eye yesterday. the vet put the flea/worm poison on the top of his head. I got a night headache from worrying so much and gave him three servings of wet food - jewish mothering it up - the guilt.
and I realized I loved him, and I prayed for him, and I begged him not to die - to get better.
but I still don't want this. I have this. I need to deal.
the insane thing I do is still wonder if I fucked it up - if I had been a tiny bit more "fuck it", I could have kept noel in my bed - in my Saturday evening rota. but how many times have I scenario-ed this. I've already done the fucking math so it embarrasses me that I still ruminate. but who is there to judge.
just me.
and I got egg rolls and potato pancakes and beet salad and oysters and a beautiful bath and nice conversation and entry back into the world.
but Fred completely was actually sort of rude to me. shall I call it that? it seems a bit arrogant. so, he didn't answer the text and the email where I asked questions and showed him my favorite vic chesnutt song, "in my way, yes". and showed him that Simpsons macon clip that I cut off at the party.
it makes me feel again ego-slapped.
big time.
I guess I think I'm someone really cool but that not many folks can see it.
I wish I were stoned. I wish I were drunk. I wish I wasn't feeling.
that made me cry again.
I wish I could just "watch the game!" and know who's got a winning season of my favorite teams and talk about Georgia.
you know me though - fucking bread and circuses. and I find circuses a little exploitative - the animals you know.
everyone forgets that we're animals too - humans.
it's great football weather. I wonder how many thousands of Georgians will say that when making convo at the bar with their drinking buddies. I don't want to die. I want to live, but I guess that's a self-made thing.
I said out loud to myself today, "congratulations. you're self-imposed lifelong fear of intimacy and distrust of love - guess where you are - here. alone. fucking alone."
I washed the sheets today and put the heated mattress pad on.
it's gonna be a fucking fantastic evening.
maybe I'll go try to find a book. the murder mystery for the book club was a compelling read. I have notes in my head.
god I miss you.
and you know what you're doing?
taking a nap. not thinking about me at all.
I'll get used to it.
or distract myself or both.
I'm so tired, but I don't really nap.
I miss the potential to go to bed with you in the daytime and rest my head in the crook of your arm while you play on your phone after we've made love like lovers.
gag.
and the bees. they are at it.
the birds are kind of silent.
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