Crooked Ledge

Somewhat less excited about getting up and in here today as opposed to yesterday… not sure why but I know why.

I have to unpack everything, and I have to face the fact that my entire life is a mess. I also have to face the fact that I can fix it, but just won’t. I can imagine many people have felt this way before, and are feeling this way now, and so I should just become one of those people that buckles down and faces it.

OK, go.

I’ve barely even made a dent in my coffee yet, and I already flipped away to look at something else. I need to download more fish photos. I wonder if I can get fish in this new place? OMG.

I don’t want to get too excited about that. I’m planning on going back to work.

If the timing works out for me like it has in the past, I’ll finally quit moping around, get up and make a good amount of money, just in time for the entire world to enter phase 2, during which I will probably engage in some new psychodrama that once again distracts me from my work at the critical point.

I (ok, one good thing about this writing exercise is that I am my own audience, and I can see more about myself than I can when it’s in my head. *I* just noticed that I’m feeling defensive. I have used this I pronoun too much.) don’t even remember what I was going to say.

I scrolled back to the beginning to reread. No.

I haven’t unpacked my headphones yet… I still have food in the other freezer so I guess I have to go back there for another day, I keep having to go back. I just clicked away.

It’s not fine. I feel alone, and lonely. My ex is an asshole. This new boy that I picked up turned out to be remarkably like him in all the bad ways, and only one of the good ways, and all in my head anyway. My side dude did not rise to the occasion, like I never even let myself hope that he would.

My boyfriend did come through though. He pretty much handled the whole move. I’m thinking of a dream I had along those lines, I’m glad I started recording dreams now. I can’t remember if I had any last night, I took melatonin, and I stayed in bed too long.

How is melatonin not in the web browser’s spell check? I can tell where my confession was for the day by where I stop starting every paragraph with I.

So, loneliness. I’ve been here before. A few long walks through town and a couple of nights at the bar usually do it. Of course, less and less as I get older and as I stop being the beautiful girl who stops traffic – hopefully I can eek that out for a few more years. I just thought of the boy, turning (redacted), same age as my ex, and realizing that yeah, this is it. We were supposed to have our shit together by now.

I can do this. Ok, Go.

But I don’t want to. I want to relax, enjoy summer, take a long walk in town, pick roses (literally, I need to do this), go shopping for more odd antiques to throw around in my newly trashed apartment, and maybe find someone to distract myself again when growing up looks too hard.

OMG, there is still too much coffee left – I’m using my favorite mug, which I think is bigger than other mugs, even though my ex and I tested it way back when and the difference is negligible. I think this mug holds less than a pint.

I’m thinking of what I have to do today. Go clean out the old fridge, go to Walmart (that one’s kind of scary, but I’ve been putting it off for months now) and break up with the boy.

Yeah, still haven’t done that yet. I was busy. I think I secretly don’t want to, but it’s the grown up thing to do. He is going to cheat on me, and I really can’t have a dude going out and fucking diseased people behind my back.

That’s the way it is with white people. My one transgression is their usual behavior.

My side dude and I always used condoms religiously, until maybe a couple of years into it. My slut neighbor that the boy is lining up to sleep with still gets an abortion at least once a year, and pops the morning after pill like candy, and *yet* didn’t know that pRep exists and that there’s a vaccine for HPV. How fucking disgusting, and yet the media would like to say that Black people are dirty and carry diseases. Oh, and whores are dangerous.

These chicks are like ghetto projects and whores are gated communities.

I will not let that dick touch me again. I was thinking of giving it one last go before the slut gets back (long story that I will probably forget by the time I link back to this, and I don’t really care because the *entirety* of this is trivial), and I just realized that I began this paragraph with the pronoun I and yes, I do want to fuck him again. But, occasionally I put a hold on myself and exercise self control.

I feel a rub in my chest, it does in fact feel like a broken heart. Not glass, as I’ve felt in the past, but something heavier. Like two large stones – I remember chipping away at the stone to bury her. There is land where shovels do you no good, it’s just rock under there. And you have to find a place where the rock breaks, and then get a long steel rod and wedge it into the crack, and if you haven’t thrown your shoulder out by then you have to push with all your weight and thank god for every pound you have and hope that you have enough strength to wedge the rock open, and if you’re alone you have to push hard enough to slide the rock apart so the opening doesn’t crash closed when you put whatever it is that you were trying to bury inside.

My shoulders are destroyed.

I miss her so much.

I’ve wrecked my face now to the point where I don’t want to go outside and smoke, and accidentally see anyone. I remember when my ex used to have me like this every morning, “morning”, hiding my face as I walked around the corner so that no one would see that I was fundamentally broken. Like he believes I am.

Today, I’m having a hard time disbelieving it.

Let’s get to tomorrow.

OK, Go.

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