Again, I ruined the day. I think I’m actually becoming afraid of recording here, and afraid of the day, and afraid generally.

That’s so stupid.

When I hide from the day, the day is gone, and so is the chance to create a tomorrow that isn’t so scary. Of course, I only realize this once I’m finally up and awake, and that is the problem.

I had so many plans for the sunlight today. I guess not. Well, the trash has to go out, at the very least.

I’m finally starting to settle in to My apartment, and of course, this is the time I have to move. In 4 days… something will become clear, I have plenty of money, I just didn’t imagine it would all go to paying 2 rents for no reason.

Going back to work is a serious question… there’s a serious conversation I need to have with the boy. I wonder if that’s what I’ve been holding out for the whole time. I don’t want this to evaporate into that vapid vapor again, but it easily could.

Serious matters to discuss. I am in pain again today. I realize now that this makes it hard to get out of bed. There is a problem. I don’t know what it is.

I hope to God… pregnant? No, I don’t think so.

If I had gotten pregnant, I would right now be having a miscarriage, and I know this. I had a dream, just a snippet, that I did not write down last time I was here. About the time I was ovulating, according to that weird app that I’m pretty confident is wrong.

I can’t remember why, but I was in a darkened sewing room. I think it may have been the attic apartment in my old house because it had once been a leatherworking shop, or my childhood house, which also had an attic apartment that incidentally I and often my mother had been using as, among other things, a sewing shop. Anyway, it was dark, with sunlight streaming through the shuttered windows in sharp slices, cutting dusty air into strips of day and night.

This gives the impression that the worker has been going all night long, and it is now morning.

I didn’t see who it was, it felt like it was me, but the hands weren’t mine. For starters, they were white, the fingers were larger, and the nail beds had fine, dry lines indicating that this person was older and obviously not in the habit of putting on lotion after each and every hand washing as I do.

I feel like it was this guy, just because this photo struck me as so utterly ironic when it popped up on my screen.

Anyway, I remember a rustic wooden table laid out with an array of breast implants. Many different shapes, sizes, and textures. And this man was apparently sewing them, on a big, old looking leather machine. The soft flesh, visually about the consistency of the false flesh that I see covering prosthetic and barbie dolls, which I used to rip apart with my teeth when I was a kid, gnawing legs down to the metal armature underneath to feel like an Inca Goddess (I added the female diminutive at the end, why? And why is it diminutive? I have to email my literary friend, I will do it tonight, it never gets easier than it will be now, and what do I have to worry about, his profile picture looks exactly as ridiculous as the implant sewing man I have described here) and I remember that all of those random boxes of dolls in various stages of deconstruction (I did not say destruction) were also kept in that attic when I was a kid.

There was more, but as this is a recounting from a dream I had before I shut myself in with the boy over the weekend, it apparently is cemented in my mind to the point where I don’t have to spend my time on this now.

I have typed through 2/3rd a cup of coffee without confronting the issue that has been rubbing the back of my neck like an unwelcome lover the entire day, holding me in bed afraid to move for fear of instigating an advance that I have set myself up to have to now appear to want in order to get it over with sooner. I know that feeling too well and seeing myself so comfortable with its recognition and description is the part of that thought that makes me nauseous.

I have to talk with the boy about going back to work. I don’t want to lie to him. If he leaves he leaves. If he wrecks my life in retaliation, like my ex did, then so be it. I have so many feelings about this, but being a selfish bitch and not letting anyone else have a say in a life I want them in is not fair, and I don’t want to do that to anyone ever again.

And that does it.

I didn’t even have to finish the rest of my dream.

Maybe some other time.