I remember when I first broke up with my ex, the first time. He was devastated, and I know what that feels like. When everything hurts so bad, so bad, and the only person who can help is the same person who is hurting you. I wonder if I ever told him that I understand what that’s like, because I really, really do. And if he doesn’t know that I understand, I can understand why he still hates me.
Repetition is part of who I am, and everything I do. I guess I intrinsically know that no one is going to listen to me the first time, or the second time, but after all is said and done – no one can tell me I didn’t tell them so.
I just hate the fact that I’m giving so much to them, for nothing in return. I suppose yes, it is my choice to give some of the things – all of my time, the expensive gifts, vacations, etc – but I don’t see how caring for someone to the extent to which I care as *optional* in a relationship. And I’m frankly disgusted to a core I can’t even see that they do. In so many ways… the ways in which these men (and I should say people) disappoint me are as different as they each are.
I realized that this dog looked like the real life version of my favorite, only favorite, stuffed animal that I had when I was a kid. He’s still half eaten, boxed up in the basement, and probably exactly as soft as I remember. I should go get him.
I’m mad because I have to go hang out with the boy today. I don’t have to specifically, but it’s expected that when I’m around I’ll see him on weekends. I don’t want to, I’ll say it again. And I shouldn’t… because I just caught myself thinking thoughts that have absolutely no place in a relationship like this. He is definitely not worth hating.
There is a rhythm to my writing that only I can see, but I can tell they do appreciate. It’s like Shakespeare’s iambic pentameter. And I can tell when it’s broken. I can tell every time I stopped to check my breathing, blinked to check my sight (omg, that’s a trip), mispelled a word, or reminded myself to take yet another sip of my already cold coffee.
I talked to one of my favorite cousins, I guess my favorite cousin, right now and probably forever, yesterday. It was informative, and it makes sense that I would dream about my grandmother. It’s a shame that we didn’t know more about her. Even if I had kids, no one would ever know much about me either. That kind of hurts, but I’m slowly getting to be ok with that. At least the pressure is off, to be a good person.
Last night when we were fucking, the boy wouldn’t look at me. I remember when my ex started to do that. I’m not even mad. I feel like a kid who broke a cheap toy, not even my favorite one. I just don’t want to go through the hassle of opening up Tinder again.
The big sheep rug that had once been in the middle had been replaced with a tacky ass braided oval. It was probably very expensive and purchased from one of those “free trade” boutiques, as if anything that comes from capitalism or a comparable system of alienating economy could ever be free. It was very fucking expensive, I’m sure.
Long pause, I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect that to hurt so badly. I’m reading back through this post and I can’t find a good excerpt to snip. I guess this might be it, the part where I realized that something hurt so bad I had to let go of it, get out of the stream of consciousness and sit on the shore – the point where a dream gets so stressful that you force yourself awake.