666

I took melatonin last night, although I didn’t take it the night before.

I wonder if other people stay awake all night, anxiety ridden, trying to make arrangements for *me*, for *my* birthday, for *my* parties, for *my* random travels.

The answer is no, I know that. I don’t know why I bothered asking.

My fingers just rested on the keyboard for a really long time. I realized this, and my initial reaction was to pick them up, and try to get them moving again by starting a sentence with “Well, I’ve actually been here the last few days, but just with no time to write because I’ve been sleeping too late again” and then see what my fingers follow it up with.

Which is exactly what I did, and it looks like nothing. I guess there’s no reason to let my coffee go cold today – I know that I had dreams but I can barely remember them. They’re right there, just out of arms reach. More like the fragile dehydrated carcass of an insect – you know that if you try to touch it, move it, it will disintegrate into dust.

I did have several thoughts on waking, and I must admit not good ones <=== and probably true ones.

Men. Not men, but the men in my life.

I am so much more accomplished than any of them. They come to see me on one of my random adventures… I live like this every single day, and worse. Hearing my ex, and now this boy, recount their work drama like it matters – and they both know what I do for a living. OR, acting like they’re going out and rebelling, when they *full*well*know* what I have done in my life.

This is your dream, this is my Tuesday.

Stole the words right out of my mouth… from a show I like to watch but clearly the boy does not.

With the exceptions of my Father, of course. I put that extra s in there and I’m leaving it. He really has been several different people over the time that I’ve known him. How do men, or at least the men in my life, just seem to believe that capable women like me just shuffle into the closet and shut down when they’re not looking at us, we’re just on call for whatever they need whenever, and we do nothing of consequence while they’re not looking.

And, according to my ex, bills get paid magically and the fridge fills itself.

I just realized that every song I almost skip through on my playlist is someone else’s absolute favorite song. Someone out there. I wonder if I’d like them or hate them.

The other Saturday, the boy spent a lot of time listening to music. I don’t think he realized that I like the same music as him. Like I’m not trying to diss Beyonce so much as let this boy know that he’s a fucking asshole.

I just went to write a song tag and realized that the post slug is 666. So I’m not going to title this one.

I don’t know, this post is feeling superficial and vapid, it is. And that means that it’s about to get good.

I’m intentionally holding something back today. And by intentionally, and holding something back (and today), I do not mean to insinuate that even I know what it is. But I can feel it welling up underneath the surface, and as I allude to it a sharp hot drip of adrenaline, that blistering acid feeling, shoots right down the inside of my sternum to pool on top of my diaphragm.

I have to get a Covid test in unrelated news.

I don’t know what it is, but as I think that, it’s like the muffled knock of a wild animal trapped in cardboard box, that type of impact, right at the back of my neck. My neck, where it is bent rather than straight as it should be, I should get a new desk, or a new chair.

I should do a lot of things.

Sometimes I wonder, of all the coincidences in the world, the ones that just stop and make us think and recount and say emotionless statements like “What are the odds?” which ones save us and which ones ruin us. And I wonder how much who we are as people effects that.

And I wonder why all the coincidences I share with others always ruin me, and save them.

I think I find myself beginning to hate the boy. Not him, like so many men, but how he just takes me fore granted. And not men. All people, once you get to know them.

It almost makes me want to preemptively hate myself. I’m sure I’d be an asshole once I get to know me.

The acid adrenaline blooms, like a drop of dye in water, inside me.

I haven’t written anything other than this (and that) in months… there’s that knock at the back of my neck again.

Can someone tell my Spotify that neither the boy or I like Thom Yorke *that* much?

Like 20% less, please.

From a show the boy likes, and I like too.

I mean he’s ok but…

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