Monday, January 7, 2013

thoughts (fragments)

la notte by marta bevacqua


white tiles are crisp. like snow.

i am nearly 30 i dream of escape and hate myself for not doing it enough.

will i ever impregnate someone and have to sit in a crisp white room waiting for her abortion?

what are the names of the future people i will meet who i will love and who might will could (hopefully) make me feel something

why don't you care anymore q? why?

if i will live my fantasy of spending my birthday with a bottle of rum lying on the floor of my house staring at the ceiling imagining it is a sky that i can reach out and touch (escape, escape, escape)

there is a carpenter helping me with a few jobs on the house. this bothers me. i don't like needing help on my house. i see it as an extension of myself, and therefore, it should only be me who does anything to it, with it, for it. i feel emasculated. inadequate. needy. i hate these feelings.

am i still an interesting person?

maybe mom's right. maybe i need a girlfriend. maybe my therapist is right. maybe i just need friends , or at least to permit people to befriend me.
___ i think i want a pseudo-skanky girlfriend this time. someone who gives lapdances and drinks too much and gets angry and starts c-bombing everyone. who calls me crying at 3am because she can't find her leather bracelet. who matches her tutu with docs. who uses me and leaves immediately after f&cking me. ___(maybe i think it'll justify me , who i am, what i do... to be objectified for once and not objectifying.

how come i never tire of listening to Hospice?

i can explain exactly how i feel right now, i feel very much like this:

jono winnel

and so it was.

12 days ago i climbed a mountain. i didn't really care about the mountain at all. i just wanted a good workout. ( object. if. ying. )

are you my friend?

i really want to tear out my kitchen. don't tear out your kitchen q. i really want to. don't.

don't talk to her. don't text her, don't call her don't talk to her. walk away from her on the dancefloor, don't stare at her don't smile don't scowl just don't don't. (all i want to do is slam her against the wall and hold her shoulders and kiss her hard. (like last time) you know how that all ends q.

maybe i just need to stop believing (hoping?) there's more. (of what i don't know - but just... more).

i can't shake Shame off me. i mean it, i didn't breathe for the whole thing, i've never seen anything quite like it. and when i don't want to think about i can still hear carey mulligan singing new york new york (i'm not going to link it because i don't want to ruin how powerful a scene it is in the movie. in its context. where it belongs. in its unhappy home amongst 120 other minutes of tension).

"do you think i should be an alcoholic?"
"do you want to be?"
"well, we're not doing the pills anymore... so..."
"so you want to drink instead?"
"just considering it."
"what about just talking?"
"i don't want to be reliant on speaking to you."
"why not?"
"... makes me feel inadequate."
"but being an alcoholic is okay?"
"fine. how about sex? i have a friend who's a sex addict."
"you think that will work?"
"not really."
"you sound disappointed."
"i am."
"that being a sex addict won't make you feel better?"
"no. in myself."
"even my unhealthy coping mechanisms are inadequate."
"something is up with you today."

what day is it?

screw this.

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