i wish that i could make a post about first songs on albums. but i can't.
i really can't.
and that might, honestly, be the only thing that i had holding me here.
left.
i wish that i could make a post about first songs on albums. but i can't.
I've been carefully reading A Guide to the Ecology and Care of the Red Mangrove and thinking about that dream I had last night about being devoured by rats. I'm worried about starving to death, and if there'll ever be a day in my life where I wouldn't rather die than shovel any more food into my system. This morning the motorcycle was laying on its side in the parking lot, as if it'd just gotten tired. Like me. And gave up to lie in the snow, cold as it is, and wait for someone to set it up right. Again. I've been dreaming of Her in that beautiful white gown and wondering what her flowers will smell like in her dreams afterward. And wondering if the smell of coffee, now, might make you dream of me -- locked up in the pages of pulpy American fiction.
salt me you-ward!! not for slippery the feet go on the icy asphalt. crunch. smunch. and the tetter-tap. no, no. the salt goes. and me and you go. table sit. hmm. to the tongue dance and mash. me-nash the teeth food-ward and go icky in the tummy sack. glub glub. belly me up, pretty pleaseo. and mine pearlies munch on your itty bitty chin hairs. nibble mouselike on cheese. to squee your neck and palm knot your jumper. stripe me up. bed sheets and knee socks. go go go to purr the whirr and sleep me hard cold afternoons.
Hello. Can one of you find me a job, please? Preferably near you, so that we could get coffee or lunch or meet up at the pub fairly regularly. And we could make jokes about meeting on the Internet (but not when other people are around). And I could mooch off of you until I got on my feet.
just made a post about discovering that my underpants are on inside out.
maybe i've figured it out. put the pin at the right spot and pushed hard enough until it hit. something. anything. a nerve. the bottom. the fact there is no bottom and that everything is infinite and those dreams i've been having about pete whispering to me spinoza are real. there's no passion. anymore. i don't argue with myself until words spill out into late night crap poetry. or emailed love letters. or strange drunken phone messages i always regretted. the fact that i might be buying into some neither/norism drives me insane. this one will stay. and that one will leave. and probably the pain won't feel worth it. because when you turn yourself into animals, there's always a little less character. left. i don't feel passionate about anything. or anyone. maybe it's just like sleep. i've already had my fill.
i just realized this morning that i only have about a month left to submit the final draft of my entire dissertation.
my boyfriend just honked at me from the bike in the car park of our building. and i thought: damn. fuck. damn. it sure is nice to have a boyfriend. and a motorcycle.
today. just an email i wasn't even sure i wanted to send. to begin with. when i was trying to be in love with somebody else. who wasn't in love with me. until you just kept arriving like the sunday paper. until suddenly when i opened my eyes in the morning you were there. every day. and then you were here. and somehow it's been awhile since i had to stop and hold my breath and crimp my eyes and fists tight hoping you weren't just some kind of dream i might have to wake up from.