I did some great thinking in the MRI tube last night.
It’s too loud to sleep, and I shouldn’t be moving because REM will blur the images, and I really want them to come out clear. I want to be able to fix this. I don’t want to use past tense about this.
And I realized, after being asked a gazillion times whether or not I was pregnant and saying no because I’m probably not, that neither of these dudes deserve my time at all, and I’m killing myself for absolutely nothing.
Killing myself, literally and figuratively. I guess I never got over my suicidal tendencies.
Well now, I’m an adult, and it’s time to cut that shit out. What the fuck am I doing.
I have spoken to my Father recently, and he spoke of a need for a support system, rather than just live out the rest of his days alone (even though it’s a much better option in my opinion). I can see that need, and could see it clearly yesterday, when half blind I put my hazards on in the middle of storrow drive, put the hazards on my car and walked to the hospital valet so that he could go get my car for an extra tip. I am dating two whole dudes, in what they would consider to be meaningful relationships, and all it has done for me is that I have twice as much laundry to do and have to listen to twice as much bullshit. I still had to pay a random dude to rescue my car from the highway, and *he did it*. Neither of the dudes I am dating did.
I remember the first time I had to drive myself to the emergency room, leaving my ex sleeping in the first bed we ever shared. My eardrum had blown out, and he didn’t care. I dragged myself sideways down the emergency room corridor, and with little hearing I remember the hollowness of my voice when they asked me if I came alone, the echoing “Yes” sinking what felt like forever from the back of my throat to the bottom of my spine, as worthless and as a penny in a wishing well, the coppery taste of blood trailing down my throat after it. I could barely hear the outside world, and I was alone. Yes, I was alone, much moreso than the nurse realized, and I realized it right then. A random stranger was more interested in my wellbeing than the man whose cum I still had inside me.
How did I ever go back home?
I remember (is it one of those days?) when I had a stalker trying to follow me home from work, while my ex and I had lived in that same apartment. He had wrecked my car the day before, but as I lived so close to work, I didn’t want to walk home because I was afraid (the man had showed up and said he was my father in order to get my hours, and everyone had assumed, that since he was Black, he was actually related to me) that he would become a problem. After waiting around the parking lot forever, I finally appealed to a friend to drive me around the block 3 times before dropping me off at the back of my house where I ran inside.
To find my ex sleeping, happily, as if nothing was wrong.
That was the first time I hit him. Just one, smooth slap.
I would have been safer with the random stalker. I would have been better off dismembered in some psycho’s trunk than slowly ripped apart by carelessness, neglect, and entitlement as these men have done, as I have let them do.
When I’m dead, I will not have to do laundry anymore, I will not have to cook, and I will not have to listen to men complain about bullshit that they will, after hours of perserveration, *then* tell me that I don’t understand.
I just took a long sip of coffee. I’m done.
Last night, there were two runs through the tube. I can’t write, I can’t read, they promise music but the machine sounds like the base sound library for Autechre, scrambled and turned up to 11. So, I thought of the boy. I thought about what I’d say as a breakup. But I realized that he doesn’t even deserve that, I’ll break up with him when I get time.
On the next round, with the cold metal liquid that would apparently turn a fetus into swamp thing slowly winding it’s way up my left arm, I thought about my actual boyfriend, and what I could definitely say to get myself out of that in the best way, and then realized – why should I apologize for wanting something better? I mean yes, his dick is huge and he is great in bed, but I really don’t have time to lose my whole life for a dick that is probably only going to last another 10 years at most (he is older than me). I could say anything else, but I’m sure he’d understand that. Not my fault he fucked up his life and I’m all he has left. <==== and if I don’t straighten up, that’s what someone’s going to be saying about me after he’s dead and I’m stuck single at 55.
And in the waiting room, I caught up on email, did some reading, cleaned out my inbox, and did all the things that I should be doing on a regular basis, rather than give up my time for men that would… I don’t even want to finish that sentence, there’s no point, I’m done.
So now what? I don’t know if I even need closure. I did think of that. I like having the men in reserve (I need some curtain rods installed, and I want to go back to Vegas and Paris), but the time investment is too much. If it really comes down to it, I could always pay for my own plane tickets and hire a contractor.
I have to return that ring I bought the boy. It’s 2 sizes too small, 3 if we’re being honest, just like his dick.
What the actual fuck.