Once again, I ruined a perfectly good day. I slept through 2 rather important phone calls, despite the fact that I woke up to look at my phone for each of them. I have a feeling I’ll do better tomorrow.
Before that, I dreamed of the boy. I always feel like I did, but when I try to remember the dreams, they are not there. This time, digging back, I actually found one.
I wonder if there were ever more.
Actually, there was nothing important about the dream, except that I dreamed about my brother, in a house I couldn’t recognize in my sleep, except that now I recognize it as our old house, where we grew up.
The rug was a lighter, beige color, and new. The bathroom fixtures had been replaced with something generic and white. I wonder if that is how it looks now. I hope whoever bought it falls down the stairs and dies.
There’s something bigger I was about to talk about, before I mentioned the boy, and that’s what the boy has done to my mind. Not his fault, I picked him up specifically for that purpose – to hide from myself. I always find the biggest whitest man I can find and hide myself behind them. They view me as a certain type of person, in a certain way, and that’s so much easier to talk about than anything that’s underneath all that.
I wonder if my literary friend looks like Alan Rickman now. It’s been many years, and he did have that potential. He was amazingly gay, in the classiest way possible. Meaning he was brilliant and deserved the highest respect without even considering him as a sexual, or even human, being. And that respect was ironclad and untouchable even if you found him passed out on a trail in the woods covered in nothing but glitter and dirt at 10am on a Tuesday.
Angry for a minute – I wish every one of these men would realize that there are other men in my life, and do the fucking math when they try to take up my time and realize that if every, or in fucking fact any single other, man took up nearly as much time as they do, I would not have time to take an uninterrupted shit for fucks sake, let alone maintain a coherent self concept that involves something other than lounging around in lingerie for 8 straight hours and working on the conversion of automatic into cognitive control over my most intricate physical aspects of arousal.
I have seen people I would consider less worthy than me (being honest) pray, and I have seen people much more deserving than me have their prayers ignored. We all keep trying. The best of us, perhaps, only when there is nothing else we can do.
I can’t wait until all this is over and I can hug my dad again. We both brought plastic sheets so that we could hug each other. We still didn’t.
I’m actually in a very good mood today, considering that I spent yesterday crying my eyes out. I just suddenly got so scared for my father. Specifically, I don’t like having him be scared. The thought of him trying to do anything by himself, being scared, is awful to me to the point where I might start crying again just thinking about it. I have to call my Father again later.
If I say I love you, I want you to believe it. I don’t want to have to lie and say I love you in order to fuck you. You don’t have to lie and say that you love me in order to fuck me. You don’t have to lie to *yourself* and say that you love me in order to fuck me. But the fact that you would… that’s some damning praise, asshole. I want no part of that.