Electric blue nails. A little bit gobby. Watching Zombie Nightmare. A smidge sick to my stomach. Guess it’s time to talk about another aspect of the Great Plan.
It may involve two weeks of no nonsense health. I think it needs a little strictness because I have been all over the fucking map. I’ve also met caramel macchiato ice cream which is most regrettable indeed. I feel, I hesitate to say it so plainly, but I need to get back on the old rickety wagon. Water, walking, biking, not living in perpetual sugar shock and drifting in an out of this boy-crazy, exhausted, wounded dream state. I’m sick of licking my wounds, frankly. The Great Plan requires me to take a stock of this anyway, on the path to super-happy-foreverness, so now is as good a time as any. I mean, sure we’re going to the Renaissance Faire on Sunday, where if you want to eat there’s cruddiness a’plenty. It all sounds fairly like the precursor to a night of worship at the porcelain altar right now. It’s smarter anyways to just drink a shitload of water (lovely image, there) and have some string cheese and whatever I can get in and try and do the best I can. I’ve never been a giant turkey leg kind of girl, really. It’s more the point to people-watch and swan around in a dress and be a part of the whole beloved silliness. And of course, get my cards read. Maybe I can ask about the Great Plan and see if this is the right track or if I need to get more militant about this shit. I don’t want to pay 25 bucks to be told that everything’s fine. It’s not. However, I don’t want to pay 25 bucks and walk away feeling hopeless. It’s a fine line they straddle. I’ve had some shitty ones and some good ones, but I suppose it’s the desire for a disinterested party (aside from the whole me paying them for advice thing) tell me what’s wot. I’ll report back on this.
The night is finally cooling down. I’ve been making a giant mess today. Spilling things and with the heat of the day, I’ve been so unmoved to care.
Got to leave work early and I had a little excursion, hence the electric -nay, “East Village” blue nails. My sister’s down in the dumps and I can’t do anything about it. I’m tired as fuck. Along with all the other psychological rigamarole percolating in my genius brain. I also got a little sorta Daisy Mae peasant top and shorts and blue mary janes and false lashes and some of this sinful ice cream and I’ve promised myself that there will be no getting out of hand after today. I’ll either be really cute tomorrow or terribly gaudy and tragic. It’s a thin line and I straddle it every day.
I’ll also report on if the Farmers Market brings any excitement this week. I’m doubting it. I am hoping for a nice taste of some deadpan, wry and deft humor as opposed to the terrible and horrific and one-sided banter I’ve been exposed to lately. I’m hoping for a few hours of monotone.
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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.
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Well, I really don’t feel like doing this tonight. Like at all.
I should do drugs. I did carry around a box tonight with the single word COKE printed on it. And another one that read: BEER. Coulda been a fun night if it was more than just words. Story of my life.
I don’t have any clue how I’m going to get to 500 words without ending up complete gibberish. We just finished eating at Village Inn which was pretty quiet except for a group of seven or so self-righteous teens and some kind of parental supervisory unit and they were all talking about the immorality of abortion. My sister and I actually got up and got our food to go. It was ridiculous because not only were they full of asinine confidence about the moral state of the soul and when conception happens (all this decided at the Village Inn, alert the media) – they were abrasively loud.
So tonight – it’s late at my crepes benedict feel like a wheelbarrow full of bricks got dumped in my stomach. I don’t know what to talk about. We can talk about tomorrow and freedom and fireworks and hanging out and being rad at the farmers’ market. Or some variation thereof. I’m not great at plying my words tonight. Too tired and guilty. It doesn’t grease the wheels.
Stupid man continued to be stupid. I don’t know what he’s thinking. This kind of overweening praise only serves to make him look…well, overweening and desperate and obnoxious. At least to me. I don’t need every time I see him to be complimented on how I have it together, or how I handle everything so well, or my overall aplomb or how I’m looking good or how if everything gets better with age in a few years I’ll be fucking Gandhi (that was my paraphrasing as I’m sure the actual wording was too lame to exist on this blog.) It’s creepy. It’s just creepy.
And it makes it difficult for me as I’m wildly in love with the voice of another man with the same name. Yes, wildly. His voice. Yes. It’s this David Duchovny-esque monotone and it sets my soul aflame. This is a dangerous conflation of sign and signified. They really couldn’t be more different except that both are convinced that I’m professionally more professional than I’d ever profess or than could ever be reality. Yeah, say it three times fast. And one has this tragic conception (it doesn’t begin with the sperm and the egg, kids, it begins with the dolt and the flapping jaw. SHUT. IT.) that I might turn to him and bat my fucking eyelashes and give him some sort of satisfaction. The other is oblivious to the fact that I may have saved his freaking life, that I bring him cake because I’m in love with his voice and I want to hear him talk about, well, everything in that sardonic manner that reduces everything to a pithy, dismissive soundbite. He wasn’t in tonight so I had to give cake to the semi-rastafarian chick who ran the desk and look over my shoulder in despair to see if he was hiding in the racks. Not so. Another thing let go for another day.
Tomorrow I’m bringing my Decameron, my poetry, my Ipod, a pen and paper, maybe my laptop and a winning smile to our farmers’ market and see what I can pick up. If the nice guy is there, as expected, the great plan involves staring at him until both of us are really uncomfortable. I didn’t say it was a good plan…just a great one.
The man in hospice yet lives.
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