The story is complicated, and I’m not sure I even want to make it make sense for you (yes you, random clickhole casualty). I wasn’t even going to touch this name, I’ve spent years avoiding this name despite how incredibly common it is.
I realized that this dog looked like the real life version of my favorite, only favorite, stuffed animal that I had when I was a kid. He’s still half eaten, boxed up in the basement, and probably exactly as soft as I remember. I should go get him.
I’m mad because I have to go hang out with the boy today. I don’t have to specifically, but it’s expected that when I’m around I’ll see him on weekends. I don’t want to, I’ll say it again. And I shouldn’t… because I just caught myself thinking thoughts that have absolutely no place in a relationship like this. He is definitely not worth hating.
There is a rhythm to my writing that only I can see, but I can tell they do appreciate. It’s like Shakespeare’s iambic pentameter. And I can tell when it’s broken. I can tell every time I stopped to check my breathing, blinked to check my sight (omg, that’s a trip), mispelled a word, or reminded myself to take yet another sip of my already cold coffee.
I talked to one of my favorite cousins, I guess my favorite cousin, right now and probably forever, yesterday. It was informative, and it makes sense that I would dream about my grandmother. It’s a shame that we didn’t know more about her. Even if I had kids, no one would ever know much about me either. That kind of hurts, but I’m slowly getting to be ok with that. At least the pressure is off, to be a good person.
Last night when we were fucking, the boy wouldn’t look at me. I remember when my ex started to do that. I’m not even mad. I feel like a kid who broke a cheap toy, not even my favorite one. I just don’t want to go through the hassle of opening up Tinder again.
The big sheep rug that had once been in the middle had been replaced with a tacky ass braided oval. It was probably very expensive and purchased from one of those “free trade” boutiques, as if anything that comes from capitalism or a comparable system of alienating economy could ever be free. It was very fucking expensive, I’m sure.
Long pause, I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect that to hurt so badly. I’m reading back through this post and I can’t find a good excerpt to snip. I guess this might be it, the part where I realized that something hurt so bad I had to let go of it, get out of the stream of consciousness and sit on the shore – the point where a dream gets so stressful that you force yourself awake.
Why do I desperately want to show myself as useful to people that don’t give a damn about me, and if I’m hard pressed to say it (ok, that was definitely not a hard press) I don’t give a damn about either?
The river is love, the river is lust, and my body is submerged in it, and I am exhausting everything I have as all of my muscles strain against a force as powerful as the earth itself, the innate pull of water everywhere to the bottom of the ocean floor, to be pushed away by new water that also wants to be there, maybe even more. And the drive of all humans to take our weak, barely warm spark and combine it with another, maybe rub to create some fire, maybe make more. This is love.
I wonder what the point of all this is, and what the point of me is. I know I’m smart. I felt my fingers flutter a little before writing that. Is there really any point of bragging to myself? My father and I talked about that briefly. Briefly, while briefly going over archival copies of magazine articles written about his favorite, and one of my (almost capitalized My, and yes, there still is much of that kind of work to do) favorite uncles.