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So we meet again, me against the blank page and here I'm out of practice, but don't worry about me, I've no doubt I'll succeed, I find myself a stranger in a strange land with foes abounding and the odds against me. But I've been here before, and I've come out on top. Drop me just about anywhere and I'll be happy, that's what I used to say, but it's not really true. Drop me anywhere and I'll flourish, but there's only one place I can think of where I'd be happy. And just now she's three thousand miles away.
The truth is I never expected to live this long. But The DMV says I turned twenty-two nine days ago, I won't really be that old until a little less than two months from now, but who am I to argue with the governing bureaucracy? Twenty-fucking-two years old and this is the best I could do? I'll never be a superhero at this rate, hell, I'll never even be able to run a mile. Some things life hands you, others you have to work for. Getting what you want from life is just a matter of understanding which is which.
So she loves me too, and she misses me. But she doesn't tell me until I'm three thousand miles away. And now there's nothing I can do about it. It's like knowing heaven is on an island offshore, and you can look out and see it. But you don't have a boat, and there are sharks out there, but even if there weren't you never learned to swim, so it'll always be out of reach. That's what she's like to me, heaven out of reach, unattainable happiness. I'm beginning to think that perfection can only exist just over the horizon.
It's morning here and it feels like it. My whole body's tight and sore, like I slept on a concrete floor and spent the night bruising myself. My back itches from the latest batch of tattooing. She was in my mind as soon as I awakened, calling to me like a siren. I miss her so much its like dying inside. This is the worst pain I've ever suffered. I admit it, I never believed in truefuckinglove, even after I met her I couldn't make myself believe it existed. But I'm sure now. And I think I threw it away.
Waking up with thoughts of you still mulling about my brain. I sideshowed you in a dream last night, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" I said. And you were happy to oblige. But I didn't just stop at looking, you know I never can with you. And as my caresses grew more insistent, so did your need for them, until you squirmed alive in my arms, my tongue exploring you. And then you exploded, like an atom bomb in the guise of innocence. And now it's morning. And I still taste you on my lips.
Three thousand miles. Maybe less because she's in Chicago right now. And I'm sitting under a tree right now watching the apple-blossoms falling around me like snow. They're falling so fast, so thick, it seems like the tree has to be bare in an hour. But I don't think so. Maybe, maybe I came at just the perfect time after they'd started falling, but before they were all gone. Maybe these only fall for an hour every year. It'd be nice to think that this time, while I'm thinking of her was that special. But somehow, I just don't think so.
I slept fitfully last night, with you drunkenly calling me every couple of hours. You told me you loved me. Twice you made my heart soar in a single night. I told you I wanted to marry you, and I was sober, but I meant it. You didn't know quite how to reply. You told me it'd be illegal, made me laugh in the back of my head. And then, once you were done calling me, done waking me up to make me smile. I slept. And in the small snatches of sleep that I caught, I dreamed of you.
Sometimes it's hard. I think of you, next to him, enjoying his touch and not mine, and it's like killing myself. Like tearing away my sanity willfully and letting it blow away on the wind. And I hate it, I fucking hate feeling like this. Impotent. Things I have no hope of changing but I constantly think about them anyway. It's all self destruction, and you're at the heart of it. Feeding my self-hate. But then you tell me you love me. And drunk or not, everything right is wrong again. So it starts again, and it never fucking stops.
But I'm just bitter, young and bitter. But maybe not so young anymore. You told me moving here would be good for me, but I think you maybe meant good for you. But I've told you I want you to be happy, so maybe you finally believed something I said. Fine time you picked to start listening. It's raining here. Those words go through my head like a mantra, a chant, a curse. They drone on in your voice. And it is raining here. And my freedom is safely locked in the shed where even I can't mess with it.
We had a date tonight. I took a shower and got dressed in decent clothes, shaved and put on that cologne you like. I cleaned my room to get it ready for you, and I made sure everyone was out of the house at the time you said you'd arrive. But I should have known better than to treat this like a real date, because you did too, you treated it just like you would have one of our dates back home. Except now I'm three thousand miles away. And a phone call was all I was looking forward too.
Damn, damn, damn. I almost fucking forgot. It's late, and I have to be up early, I should have made time for this earlier in the day, should have planned for it, but I just fucking forgot till I got in bed. And I'm laying there, thinking of her, trying to program my dreams, like maybe if she's the last thing I'm thinking about before I pass out, then I'll get to dream about her all night. But it never works. Nothing with her ever fucking works. And the worst part is that there's no one to blame for it.
I'll be there for you. I've told her that, and she knows it's true. And maybe that's the problem. She knows I'll be here for her, so why not just let me drift while she decides what she wants? After all, I'll be here for her. Won't I? I mean why the hell not. I'm not in love with anyone else. I'm not married to anyone else, I'm not fucking anyone else, so why the fuck shouldn't I be here for her? She's all I've got. So why not? I'll be there for you. I've got nowhere else to go.
Yes, it's true, you are a good woman. Then again, you may also be the antichrist. Only dying men can see the truth, but Dave says that all stories are true, or at least that's what Dave said Alan Moore said, or moreover, that's what I'm saying that Dave said that Alan Moore said. So who the fuck knows what any of us really said. But I said the thing about dying men, except even that's not as true as it seems, we're all dying, just some quicker than others. But fuck, quicker is better than slow anyway, isn't it?
There is no cure for willful stupidity. Me? I quote other people to sound like they do, like I might have some idea what it's all about. But I don't. No more than any of the rest of you do. We're collectively making it up as we go along, and not one of us has the balls to admit that we don't know what the fuck it is we're doing, what exactly we're trying to prove by acting like we know what's going on all the time. But hell, I mean, whatever gets you through the night right? Whatever works.
And here the trees are all covered in moss and mold. Like the whole damn place is in a state of decay, slowly rotting away, and it rains all the fucking time, light drizzle, just enough to sap your spirit and depress you, but never enough to wash your soul clean of the collected sin and self-loathing that's built up within you, just waiting for your husk to corrode enough for it burst through at your seams, spilling onto the sidewalk in a pile of decomposing hope and crumbling dreams. Remember: Little Lolita, Crying on a concrete curb. She's invisible.
So I write haiku, fine, so shoot me in the brain meat and watch it run down the wall why don't you. I like that one, and it's significant to my life and my past and hopefully my future, so fuck off. Okay, now that that's out of the way, on to more important matters. It seems I‘ve hit a rough patch in my imaginary relationship. It's like ethereal turbulence across an angels wing: If you can't see the angel, who the fuck gives a damn if it's having a rough time flying? Damn, I never was good at metaphors.
Past the half-way point and I never even noticed. But life's like that, not that I have any right to pontificate about life, but it is. And I think about those few times, most of them drunken, when it was almost like actually having a relationship. Like the time behind the fence by Hajnalka's, or that night after the grave rave on my couch, when you were in that damn sexy leather outfit, or the time we watched Labyrinth - well, some of it anyway, or the night we watched The Cell in my basement. I still have that scar.
And I dreamt about you last night, just like most nights. Like the latest fashion in fixations. Personally, I'm starting to worry about myself. But you're always there, like a tickle in the back of my brain, reminding me of what I left behind, tempting me to believe there might be something waiting for me if I go back. But sometimes I wonder if it's right for me to expect anything from you, when the cost you pay might be so high. Me, I'd give anything for you, but then you're special. I'm just a guy with nothing to offer.
It's well after midnight and I'm falling behind. I'm listening to the cd I made for her on my headphones to keep from waking the baby. Tiny lights keep flashing in the corners of my eyes. I'm starting to think that I've been awake too long. I can hear the clacking of the keys over the music and it's starting to give me a headache. I hate it here, but I haven't told anyone yet. I want to go home, I've been scrounging every penny I can find to buy myself a ticket. But maybe that's the cowards way out.
Eric and Mary just left. The party atmosphere quickly fading. It always does when I haven't been drinking or smoking pot. Quitting those things is supposed to be good for you, they're depressants, but without them I get depressed. I've almost entirely given up on sleep. I lost two pounds, my body burning constantly without fuel. But it's only two pounds, it's not like I'm starving, just. . .fading away into nothingness I guess. I worry sometimes that I don't really exist. I think that's why people seek relationships. The fights and the "I love you's" are real life affirmers.
It's been a few days now. I have waking dreams, my mind wandering without an outlet. I can't sleep without passing out, without the alcohol and the drugs to pull me under I feel like I'm living on coke, tweak, and mini-thins. I don't even know if she'd recognize me if she saw me. I keep hitting the wrong keys, getting ahead of myself, then backtracking and fixing the mistakes. Everyone else has been asleep for hours. I'm going to lay down now and stare at the backs of my eyelids while I try to quell my brain's incessant thinking.
She called this morning, and talking to her is like blissful absolution. She's an angel, lacking only the wings to fly to paradise. I need her like I need air. Sometimes, when I hear her voice, I can feel the need for her in my blood, like addiction coursing through my veins, demanding a cure for it's longing. But I don't mind, if she's an addiction, then fuck all twelve steps. I'll be a junkie till the day I die, and every fix will be like heaven made flesh for me to taste, even if it's just for a second.
It's morning and I'm missing drugs and alcohol like maybe I really was addicted, cigarettes too. It doesn't seem fair that I quit all that and I still wake up hung over, my body refusing to move, my mind trapped in an unresponsive, headachy casket, and I went to bed at nine o'clock. I feel old, and old at twenty-one is pathetic. I'm trying to get in shape too, eating better food, exercising, going out and doing stuff, not having cable helps. It's like my body is rebelling against it, like twenty-some years of routine is too much to break.
I try to think of the good times, the times with you when everything fit. And one time stands out, and it's kind of blurry around the edges, like maybe it's not a memory, maybe it's the way I felt. At the bookstore, or the coffee shop, reading a book with you near me. Your foot's in my lap, and I'm trying to play with it absentmindedly, trying to read my book, but I've read the same line a dozen times, and all I can think of is how perfect you are, and how much I want to kiss you.
I woke up at seven this morning to call her, hoping against the pounding arguments my achy head put forth that she'd be able to talk to me for a while. Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Sigh. Maybe I'll try five a.m. tomorrow, it's not like I could do any worse than today. But it's okay I guess, I know she's busy at work, and she tries to make time for me, it's hard with him and all. But maybe tomorrow, everything's always better tomorrow, in the morning all wounds get healed. Because today is yesterday, and tomorrow is today.
Life's never as easy as it should be, but I guess if it were, it wouldn't be called life, it'd be called summer camp. Life wouldn't be any fun if it were easy. It's the difficulties that make life exciting, it's why stolen sweets are best, they taste sweeter because of the danger involved in obtaining them, danger and fear make everything taste better. But it's more than danger that draws us to things sometimes. Sometimes, you can see the perfection of a person, and you just know it'd be worth anything you'd have to face to be with them.
She broke our date again today, but for some reason it's not bothering me like it usually does. Maybe I've grown used to it, it's not that I don't care, I still see her whenever I close my eyes, I've just stopped hoping for a miracle. Over half of all marriages end in divorce, over half, that's got to be like hundred's of thousands of marriages, but I still feel terrible for hoping for one in particular. She tells me she loves him all the time, but she doesn't say she's happy. Maybe she is, but she doesn't say it.
Jumped the gun and wrote an untruth, she kept the date in spectacular fashion. Exquisite chaos Roiling pleasure Brain on fire Body hum Picturing you Tiger-cub laughter E Lec Tricity Shaking uncontrollably. Just as good as it ever was, as good as I hoped it would be. But it is frustrating, I wish I was there, wish I was touching you, would give anything to taste you again. I love when you have to set the phone down. I love thinking about how your hips move. I love hearing you laugh as the lightning goes through you. I love you.
It's the second morning since that night and I'm still thinking about it. I called you this morning and you agreed, it was very nice. I want to be with you so badly it hurts. My fingertips ache for your body, my mouth for all the places I know you love to have kissed. A hard habit, I've said it before and I'll say it again. But worth everything it costs me. I can't wait till I see you again. Because after being so far away from you for so long, I don't think I'll even want to control myself.
You can't write what you don't know, that's why my every fantasy begins and ends with her pleasure. With me kissing her, touching her, making her writhe in my arms. I know how she'll react when I suck her toes or kiss her belly, but anything more is just guesswork, and that cheapens the whole thing. But it's okay, because I also know what it does to me to watch her squirm, or to hear the little sounds she makes in the back of her throat through bit lips. And it's enough. Right now, for me at least, it's enough.
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