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The windows were going to have to be shut soon. It was getting warm.
She got up off the sofa after just sitting there listening to the drone of the distant riding lawn mower (they were all riding). She coaxed another fly out of the window. She wept. She was mad at herself for weeping. She was feeling sorry for herself. She was overwhelmed with nothing. She felt like all she was was a boring loser. whatever. what if she was one. It didn't matter. She just wanted to feel something more than "it's eight o'clock yay bedtime" and then waking up for the fucking cats.
She stumbled toward her ice green iMac saying inside her head, "it's all I have. fucking writing." she didn't add "fucking badly."
Last night, she had screamed "I wish you were dead. I wish you were all just fucking dead." as she prepared their demanded midnight snack, "god I feel like such a fucking idiot that I can't even say no to you. Get the fuck out of my life". and she had warped the pink tin hummingbird storage container for their food forcing the lid down in anger. It made her so sad and embarrassed. She just fell asleep and woke up at 6am and started again.
He wasn't depressed. He wasn't sad. He didn't think about her.
and that just made her cry more. she had reached out to Flynn - some bumble lawyer prospect who seemed possible - and he had stalled the convo. She didn't care. She didn't really believe that anyone would stimulate her again for another hundred years.
She couldn't walk because it was trash day and her nose was so sensitive she smelled all the empty garbage cans wafting. And the fucking historic party last night. It had been another fucking ...
first, she was hungry because she was getting her period, so she went to the place downtown no one else goes and had their salmon entree for restaurant week. It sucked and was tough. She was sure the pub would go out of business soon. She'd never seen anyone but her and the staff at the bar. Oh well. She wouldn't miss it, but she liked the bar. It was big and had windows.
He had liked windows.
fuck him.
He was one of the worst lays she'd ever had. She'd opined harshly on that in prior missives, but the whole problemo was he liked it technique and anonymous and naughty. she liked it as soul communion and connection. It was bound to be a fucking...
and yet, she would kill a spider bare handed (not a huge one) to have the chance to crack him again - to get him drunk - just drunk enough that he would forget he was supposed to wall it up, and he would actually touch her skin and feel safe and lusty.
whatever.
The historic society had been a bunch of snobs - again. She was one of the few single folks there. Everyone she struck up a convo with seemed to have a partner materialize instantly and swoop them away. The architect was dead and had been the first Macon female architect. The house was different than many and had good floors, but she definitely wasn't extremely rich. For fuck's sake, it was two bedrooms and one bath. Kristen ended up sitting in the swing then pouring out the unintentionally hot red wine when she wad done. It was a great back yard and front door. No one said goodbye.
Like him. he never said goodbye except some fucking rote bullshit of 'wishing her well". it hurt. it still smarted.
the other one had found someone new. thank the gods. it gave them a chance at friendship although she laughed that it would more likely reveal friendship was only a prelude to fucking.
it was never the climax for her.
it was always the touch. the release.
the safe sweaty cuddle
the something
she hadn't had
in ages and ages and ages.
it was easy to fuck.
it was so hard to
she wasn't even going to say it
she was already feeling nauseous.
fuck it.
she wanted to
MAKE LOVE
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