Strike while the irony is hot

I woke up late today. I’m a little disappointed because I’d been doing so good.

I cancelled work for this morning. I’m a little disappointed in myself, because what I decided to do instead was absolutely no safer, and did not improve my finances (which are, once again, fine for now, but time moves on) one bit. I’m a little disappointed in myself because, once again, rather than do anything productive with the extra time, I just slept all day. I don’t know what I’m hiding from anymore. Probably just the mountain of stuff I perpetually have to do.

He is so gorgeous, to me.

He didn’t text me this morning, or last. He hasn’t texted me when I woke up since the day that I told him that he always does. He hasn’t thrown his glasses on the floor since I told him that he always does.

Transference is a bitch. I was about to write something about how I think he feels about me, and then I realized that I actually don’t know. I have noticed that he’s been trying to tell me things, all things that I am so not ready to talk about with him but I realize that I desperately want to.

Last night (yes, I cancelled work to go get dick, as ironic as that can possibly be) he told me that there was no one else. I know that I didn’t say anything back. I know he noticed. I realize now that he’s always noticed when other men call while I’m in bed with him. He’s even handed me my phone.

His skin is so nice, and so perfectly warm. I remember the first time I fell asleep with him, it was amazing. I can’t remember ever feeling so comfortable, except for the fact that I know I did with my ex, and that I lie and say I do with my current boyfriend because I know it’s important to him.

I also realized, that in my weakened physical state, Covid-19 is actually a real threat to me.

I also realized that I might have scheduled work for my Mother’s birthday – I hope not. I just checked and I haven’t, thank god. She’ll always understand if I have to cancel for work, not only does she for some reason always think I’m broke and starving (I have been before, in her defense), she always puts every last thing in the world ahead of herself. I wish she wouldn’t do that. I worry that I inherited that trait, and I worry that my fear of inheriting that trait has led me to overcompensate in the other direction and become radically self indulgent for no actual reason, which is much more likely.

It’s so ironic that almost all of my indulgences are also quite bad for me, meaning that I put even them ahead of myself.

I also said that I’d write about my dreams here – I took melatonin last night, and remember nothing except for a turkey running across the road, which looked like a section of road from my childhood home, with dusty sand pouring out of both eyes in billowy, silty streams. I can’t recall how I felt about it. I think my brother was there, but I don’t know. I actually remember that being the beginning of my dream state for the day/night, I can’t remember the rest of it. Probably because I lay in bed for too long trying to stay asleep. Was I waiting?

Maybe this practice will give me motivation to get out of bed faster, right after I say my morning affirmation. I’ve noticed that the quicker I get up, the more insightful my posts are here – in my opinion, the only opinion that really matters here so I don’t know why I bothered to clarify. I wonder why I keep imagining an audience. When I write upon first waking, unsure of how my fingers found the keyboard at all and my mind numb but somehow racing, I find that I skip around the post less, reread less, edit less, get up less, and focus more. I’ve been skipping around a lot today, I think trying to force a non-linear thought pattern into a coherent narrative, and basically just fucking the whole thing up. I wish I had preserved the original structure of my thought today because it was absolutely beautiful.

There’s no one to prove it to other than myself, and I’m trying to have that be enough.

Ironically, my brother and I are talking about fish. My dream makes sense in a prophetic sense now. So much sense and too much sense. I think he misses our house too, as a matter of fact I know he does. Thinking about him hurts me so much constantly, how did we let this happen to us? I know he feels terrible, and knows that he’s causing us pain, and I know he just wants to be out of this world to stop hurting everyone around him by just being there. I know the feeling, but I know he knows it better. I don’t want to make him sad and talk about it, but I do desperately want to tell him that he’s absolutely all I’ve got, and never to even think about leaving me here alone. Ever. I want to tell him, but I probably won’t. I want to tell him it will get better but it probably won’t. I don’t want him to leave because I am selfish.

He used to feed the turkeys behind our house. I wonder what they’re doing without him.

I always pin the excerpt of the post at the point where I start crying – maybe I’ll break that today and put this up front – and that is why I can’t write in front of anyone else. Anyone else in my house would just see me break down right here in front of a glowing screen at sunset and wonder what the everliving fuck I am doing to myself every goddamn day.

I actually like that about myself and my writing – I should write more generally – there’s a distinct rhythm in it when I have no point and just get it all down. My father speaks in natural iambic pentameter, like a beast eyes the pulse in the neck of the prey, scared, and racing, he calms it before the strike. Sometimes I do that too.

I wish I could do that to him.

Sometimes I see that I do.

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