Book of Unimportant Secrets

I don’t think I’ll have any trouble with five hundred today.  But maybe that jinxes it.

I’m riding the red tide today, so I am going to blame some of this on that.  But some of this has a blood red source all its own and as I run my mind over its tender delta, I can hear a little scream.   I’m so lonesome I could die, a possibly wise man once crooned.  I am with you, possibly wise man. Death and this isolation feel akin.  I know the latter so well I know its shape in the dark, I know it when it takes my hand.

It is all anniversaries and promises and forever and a day drops me into the deep end of the pool and I drown.

Sorry.  Emo.

I really liked him today and I was invisible again.  And I said okay.  It was reasonable invisibility.  I was in a corner with headphones and the day was busy and strained and yet.  Yet.  I feel like this is going to be the way of it.   And I am going to be driven mad as a result.  Because I feel like such a non-person, so utterly unwanted and set aside and ordered to cheer everyone else on.  Like I’ve been classified a non-combatant.  I feel as choppy as these sentences.

I’m having alcohol in bed.   A good 4th of July or a really ugly one?  I want to stop feeling shitty and emotionally wasteful since there’s no one in the house that’s going to be able to give me any resolution except myself.   And even if I asked them, how could they resolve the reason that at this age I’m still so unattached.  So willfully…frustrated.  And now I’m getting frustrated.  I really don’t want to talk about this.  Post about it.  Whatever.

So many times before I’ve written along these lines, but never actually addressed the acute truth.  I don’t want to yet, either.  I can’t.  I hope I will if that’s one of the steps needed in the great plan.   I’m sure I could if I knew that it was.  That’s a trick of the great plan is that I never know what is required of me until it’s immediately apparent.

Things:

Lame fireworks.
Lame dude asking if I’d sit on his lap.  Somehow, asshole, you’ve given me ample opportunity to respond to your creepy queries, maybe the better thing to do is just to shut up instead of forcing me to “slap you” if you “get sassy.”  You’re very lucky that I find you completely benign and so unfuckable I foregawt hw to spel.  Otherwise, none of this would be allowed to happen.
Lame catching nice guy’s eye but not being sure if it was good or just stupid.  Likely the latter or he thinks I have some kind of dust in my eye.
Lame being totally insulted about the music in my Ipod.
Lame having to give my bowl of cherries to some random neighbors.  Lame that my salsa is gone.  Lame that everyone puts their hand out to me, but feels free to rip on me and never say thank you and have absolutely no clue out of the million things going on in my life why I might at any given moment be upset.

Sorry, Lady Liberty, but you said we were free, and that includes freedom to be a self-righteous, angsty bint.