Tuesday, December 11

Time Warp

Has it really been since July that I've posted?

What am I doing with my life?

Saturday, July 28

Where the hell am I going to be in 10 years?

I have this package of watermarked resume paper that I bought when I was so young that everyone I'd ever known in my life was still alive. I used a few of the pages immediately, enticed by their thickness and suggestion of importance.

Over the years I must have taken them a page or two at a time when circumstances could benefit.

I finished the final few pages of that package this past weekend, constructing a bible to protect us during our trials at Otakon '07.

And I thought to myself tonight, as I was throwing away the stray drawings still left in the box, that I could have never imagined the fate of those pages all those years ago when I thumbed through them, freshly purchased.

Isn't life intricately unpredictable?

Friday, June 8

Listen to my Heart Pound. Listen to the Love Sound.

You're lying to yourself if you think that you didn't know. That your emotions were fooling you. That you truly thought you wanted to be with me.

If you had felt anything like I did, you wouldn't have followed your question of consummation immediately with a what if.

"Will you go out with me? If it doesn't work out, please promise me we'll still be friends?"

I was taken aback when it was asked. The thought would have never crossed my mind. I agreed simply because I was so sure, so sure that it would never come to that. We'd been skirting the issue for months and when d-day finally came I couldn't do anything but entertain my neuro-chemicals as they fired randomly as if in sleep. I had such a rush of endorphins and adrenaline I doubt I could have walked a solid line if accosted by a suspicious authority figure.

So I said, of course we'll still be friends.

But it didn't turn out that way, really, did it? We fought for a long time. Too long. Every day with no sign of you, nothing but short quipped answers to questions, nothing to indicate you had any interest in me at all. I'm sure, from your standpoint, it seemed the same of me. I holed myself up, I cried and ate gummy bears. I didn't frequent our internet haunts for some time. I avoided you. Perhaps not consciously, perhaps so.

We moved past it. We're back to the way we were, as if our whole innuendo had never happened. We're skirting the issue again.

It kills me everyday, but still I want it. I don't want to go back to avoidance. If we never again reach the benchmark of relationship, I can live with that. I'll be lonely a lot and if you leave me, I'll settle for someone new and different and not nearly as in tune with my emotional parameters as you are. Not nearly as good as you.

And when you ended things, you said, "What if I find someone new?"

I could never leave you for someone new. Never.
I could settle.
I could pretend.
I couldn't ever actively leave you.


That is the difference between us.


It may seem sporadic, these breakdowns of existentialism I am prone to. Months go by that I seem emotionally stable and then suddenly, there I am again. A puddle on the floor. It's been over 8 months since our relationship ended, four times the length of time that it lived. What does it mean that the wounds are still as fresh as they were the day they were carved? What does it mean that I've gotten so talented at covering them with gauze and forgetting them for days or weeks at a time?

I think I'm dying.

Pyloric Romance

Everyone assures me it's platonic. It isn't. Platonic is I care about you and I want to help you with your homework and know everything that happens with you and all your girlfriends and I want to keep you safe and spend time with you and know you're happy, while at the same time having a completely separate life on my own with separate relationships and separate events.

Not this.

Platonic is the kind of relationship you have with a brother or a sister or a good friend you've known your entire life and couldn't see yourself thinking any differently of.

Not this.

Platonic is a cop out. "I love him, but it's only platonic. He's like a brother to me." is a symptom of a girl with no hope left. A lie she tells others in hope that she'll someday believe herself.

She wishes she was gullible enough to believe the lies she tells herself.

Not this.

I am one hundred and infinity percent sure that none of that applies to me. I care and I want happiness for him.

But all I want is him. I just want to latch on and never let go until I'm completely absorbed and living unnoticed and incarnated as a pillow-soft cushion to take the strain off his heart. I go to sleep thinking about him. I wake up thinking about him. I spend my nights dreaming and my days noting all of my life events to be later told in a dramatic fashion in hope that they might ignite a smile or chortled laugh from him. I live for those moments and those moments alone. That is my livelihood. I see no other way.

I would live this way a thousand years, nursing that burning hope deep inside me and preying on every scrap of compassion and inclusion he sent my way.

He owns me. His choice of phrasings can build me or break me. His wants and needs unconsciously become my own. I follow him loyally and make sure the hem of his robe never touches unworthy ground.

I wouldn't change it for anything.
I couldn't want more, unless to have him turn and lift me from the ground with ambition to hold me for eternity. Or, even for a moment. I'd gladly drop back down to my knees.

Every time I touch you a fire ignites in my fingertips and runs it's course through my body jostling nerves I'd forgotten existed and waking the butterflies that hibernate in my rugae.

Tuesday, May 22

God Hates Shrimp

I wish I were so gullible as to believe the lies I tell myself.
I wish I were so wise as to not read so much into tiny words.
I wish I were so numb as to not feel the seer of hot.
I wish I were so talented a puppet as to move freely with no strings.

I wish you were so kind as to save me of these wishes.


We make plans. We clear dates, we clear wallets, we clear time. We get excited. We wait, we fidget, we anticipate.

We never do.

It makes those plans so easy to make. I'm going to buy a continant and fill it will lime green jello. I'm going to spend a summer in the Congo studying gorillas in their natural habitats. I'm going to meet the queen. I'm going to. I'm going to. Watch me go.

You went.

I'm still here, dreaming in anticipation.
And I miss you.





What if next time you don't come back?

Saturday, May 19

Megan's Law

Everyone always asks if we're together, and it's the most horrible feeling in the world when to have to say that we aren't.



Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen?

Monday, May 7

Tachycardia

There is just so much to do.

I feel like I'm running a hundred thousand miles an hour, straight at a field of anti-gravity. The promise of being suspending in time and space when all of this comes to a rushing halt is what's keeping my feet pounding in rhythm on the cracked drought-weathered ground.



I hope I'm not disappointed.

Friday, April 27

So, in the future if I rave or rant, just set it down to literary ebullience.

I just bought this book of love letters called "A Literate Passion" and I strongly, strongly recommend it to anyone who may read this and is currently breathing. Despite the fact that Henry Miller is a right ugly cheating dickwad and Anais herself is a beautiful one, the passion between them is intoxicating. I can't put it down. I can't help it.


"I lived it with the consciousness of the poet, mind you, not the consciousness the dead-formula-making psychoanalysts would like to put their clinical fingers on--on, not that, no, a consciousness of acute senses... We went to the edge, with our two imaginations. We died together."

"And today, in the most precious good health, I had a very languorous, pleasurable sensations of aches in my arms-- from holding you so tightly."

Tuesday, April 24

Downhill Slopes Thrive on Gravity

You hurt me.
And I'd bet it'll take me years to admit that to you.




Every jab I'd thrown at you pales hideously in jest, and you can't deny it.
Honesty is a tetanus shot.

Sunday, April 22

Saturday, April 7

Long Distance Relationships Will Kill You

It's hard to swallow again and I wonder if maybe it won't go away this time.

Monday, April 2

Why is it so gundamn hard to be happy?

It isn't fair. She gets everyone she wants, I swear. She could pick anyone out of a crowd and be dating them within the week. How can she be so happy having no substance? How can she move so easily through relationships without tying any heartstrings? How can she not see that nothing will ever come of that? Where's the goal? Where's the purpose? What's she looking for?

Why is it so hard to watch?

It's like she's skiing down a hill with her eyes closed. She glides so easily without ever needing to stop and look at where she is or where she's been or think about where she's going. She just exists on a track of life that lets her fly.

And I'm walking down that same hill, in steel weighted boots. Each step takes the entirety of my strength and I spend hours regaining it staring at everything around me and contemplating the entire journey. I can see far enough to know where I'm going-- I just don't know how I'm ever going to get there. I'm too scared of crevasses to want to do anything but lie in the snow and stare at the horizon.


Because it's so fucking far away.

Saturday, March 31

Vicious Cycle

I read through the archives today. Apparently, like 90% of the things I document in this webblog are ridiculously depressing.

And so, I've recounted every of the searing events of the past four months in a crash-course 14min.

I can't even begin to describe how I'm feeling.

A Day in the Life

"Should I wear these jeans or..."

"Didn't you get blood on those jeans?"

"Yeah, but it came out. We have a good washer. So yeah. These jeans... or these shorts with a hole in the crotch and a ducky diaper pin instead of a button?"

"..."

"... okay, should I wear this shirt or the other shirt?"

"That one."

"Okay, should I wear these, or..."

"Dude, you should definitely wear clean undwear."

"Okay. Now, Flipflops or sneakers?"

"With jeans? Flipflops."

"Are you sure you like this shirt better?"

"Yes."

"How is this shirt better?"

"It isn't. Wear the other one."

"... Really? Are you sure?"

"OMG JUST GO!"

"Okay, okay. Jeeze. I need hair conditioner and a towel."

"No shampoo?"

"No. I'm a conditioner kind of guy."

Friday, March 30

They do.

Does it comfort or kill you to know that everyone feels exactly as you feel?

Wednesday, March 28

NewsFlash

In case you were not previously aware, there are some things wrong with me:

<-- is not pretty
<-- has no skills valued by modern industrial society
<-- has a C in anatomy
<-- fan of potato chips in ice cream
<-- says terribly stupid things
<-- cannot speak Japanese
<-- flawed
<-- desperately wants to bury the dead
<-- loveless
<-- heartless
<-- soulless
<-- probably a masochist
<-- doesn't even really like ATHF at all
<-- writes false stories for onesentence.org under a false name and obscure email address just to hit home with life points that have never happened to me
<-- is a fraud
<-- is in love
<-- is a conformist
<-- has a very large ass
<-- worships Meatloaf
<-- backstabber
<-- frontstabber
<-- addict
<-- narcissist
<-- anti-confidant
<-- voted most likely cling to an abusive relationship by a jury of peers (voices in my head)
<-- loves the smell of wet dirt

<-- failure to thrive at the age of 19

Monday, March 26

My Heart Hurts

Why do I sit around creating problems when you have enough legitimate ones to cover us both?

Friday, March 23

And how.

The best part about having no class on Thursday is that Friday feels like Monday, but at the end of the day, it's still Friday and Tuesday is the weekend.

You get what I'm saying?

Saturday, March 3

Targa, Targa be my Lover! Love me, Love me Under Covers!

OH MY GOD! I FRICKEN FUCKING TRUCK MOTHA LOVIN' BITCH SLAPPIN' HO GRABBIN'





love targa.tga files.



I just wanna go SHAKE someone! AHHHH!

Wednesday, February 28

Shot Through the Heart and You're too Late

Sometimes I hate myself just for imposing myself on you. Honestly. Like you don't have enough shit to do and to deal with that you need me on top of it? And worse, when I throw MY shit at you? And worse when I create shit for you to deal with?


Who does that?


Oh yes I care so much for you. Allow me to make your life totally suck.
I'm sorry for the guilt trips. I'm sorry for whatever I thought I was going to get out of any of it.
I'm my mother.


Please when I make you feel this way, just tell me to fuck off. I'd rather I feel lonely and unrequetted than to ever cause negativity to infiltrate your emotional perameter. And I'm meaning this in all honesty. You know I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. I'm saying it because I feel it.

Not to make you feel like shit.
Not to make myself feel better.
Not to piss you off.
Not to validate my existence.
Not to make you feel however I wanted you to feel or to reap whatever I had wanted to reap out of this kind of talk in the past.

I mean it in cold hard plan-spoken English.




Please don't let me do these things to you.
You're worth so much more to me than that.



It isn't your fault I have the emotional stability of elemental francium.
I just keep stealing your electrons without asking. Imposing my charges.
Fucking with equilibrium.
I've never hated myself more than I do at this very moment.

Saturday, February 24

-v^----v^---v^-----------------------

God, I feel so empty.




Please don't let this be over.
It can't be over. It just can't be.


Please.

Revive me.

Friday, February 9

Fool me twice...

Sometimes I get sort of nervous. Worried. (Indefinitely jealous but that's another story.) Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right things. Sometimes I have to ask myself how safe it is to do this again, to offer myself up to walk that tightened heart-string over a familiar lake of caustic lava, and for what? The chance that I'll fall again? The chance that I'll burn?

The chance that you'll push me?

And then I stop being ridiculous and I take a few moments to truly think about it. If this isn't one of those things in life worth risking for my dear, then what the fuck is?

Because, what do I get if I stay on that rope? You.
What do I get if I fall? Nothing.
What do I get if I never try? Nothing.

To never try seems eerily similar, doesn't it?

It was absurd to think so much, anyway. I have that problem-- I think too much without being rational. I know myself well enough to know that I love that warm comfortable heat that comes from standing so may stories above heartbreak. I love the feel of that string cutting into my skin.

I couldn't stand to give up a chance to feel it again. I'd jump in a heartbeat onto that rope, even assured it would break, just to feel that feeling for one final second before I crash and burn. Just to entertain that glimmer of hope that it might hold.



Because that is a risk I'd just have to take.

Tuesday, February 6

Ketchup Seed

Sometimes I just look at her and I don't understand how someone could live like that. How could you stand to be so naive? How could you walk outside everyday and not think about things? Not wonder how things work, why they are the way they are, or why we're here? How could you live without knowing how to spell the words you use everyday? In what comfortableness could you breathe having no idea what intelligent conversation truly is? How could you wake up every morning having never felt that urgency to convince others of how you truly, deeply feel? Without having satisfied that hunger to absorb information?

How could you do all of these things and not realize the incredible world you'll live within and never know? How could you be so...

simple minded?






And then, I realized. I, am a hypocrite. She may be narrow-minded, but I am narrow-hearted. I live my life with one goal, one sight, one outstanding reason to let my heart beat. I walk a straight line everyday never needing to follow my heart away from the beaten path. I live, I breathe, I exist. I am one-hundred percent, perfectly content.

I don't want my heart to know another. I don't want to grasp manically at every available possibility to love like I do every instance with which I can learn. I don't need to feel the desperation to intimately know as many people as possible and to open a gushing heart to each and every one of them the way I need to let the workings of my brain beat down upon everyone I meet.




She is simple-minded. She lives in a blissful kind of naivety, without any need to expand herself.

She breathes.




I am simple-hearted. I love hard, direct and unwaveringly.

I breathe.



We are different, most definitely. But alas, we are so very much the same.

Saturday, February 3

Irony.

Sometimes I get philosophical. Other times I think rationally.

Oh, How Many Years May Pass in a Fraction of a Second

Sometimes I just get so scared.

And I know so well the irrationality. And I know I'm wrong.

I pray I'm wrong.

And I know that things can't possibly have gone as I think they have.

But I am so scared.

And I wake up alone and I stutter to breathe and the flesh on my neck crawls to attention and my eyes travel manically in the dark.

But, then they focus. They focus on the tangled mop of hair and sprawled limbs of your perfectly untouched existence. My ears perk to hear the sounds of your sleepy breathing and hearty snores of an undisturbed rest. I am assured of your safety. I am assured you exist unharmed. And finally I breathe.

But not one second sooner.

Wednesday, January 31

No Substitution Will Do

I think I am a masochist. Why else, I ask, would I continue to do these same things, harboring the same feelings, causing the same reactions, the same pain, the same tears, the same chronic heartsick illness, and never for a single moment think of stopping?

It's like pulling teeth. You don't want to-- God, don't you want to. But what else can you do? Every time you pull a tooth another gets infected.

It would decidedly help not to floss with barbed wire. But, it's what your mother did, and you're her tax-deduction.

Monday, January 29

Top of the Line and Totally Mine

Omg, dude.

Dude?

Dude. I totally met this dude.

Dude?

Dude. And he's like, totally rad.

Rad?

Rad. We do like, all these like, things that are like, similar and stuff.

Whoa.

Totally. But, sometimes I like, don't know what he's like, thinking or whatever. Like I don't know what he like, wants.

Like he like, kisses you and like, says like, "Get the fuck out of my truck."?





No. He doesn't do either of those things.

Friday, January 19

Lay thy Sword in the Womb of the Rock and be Praised by Angels

Take thee to thy blacksmith. Browse his shop. He will gift you armor, woven stiff in threads of gold or golden straw. You shall not know the difference.

Take of him thy armor. Give him thanks.

Bare thy gift into thine greatest battle. Let thy armor take the blows of arrow and sword.
Let the gold protect you. Bleed into the straw.

Or, if thou art coward, do not wear thy armor. Shear thy armor in thy home. Bury it in shallow grave.

Bleed uncovered, having never known its strength.

Thursday, January 18

I Hear a Train a-Comin'!

That means more to me than I'm going to even begin to twist into words. For that I'm not good enough.

I just want you to know, that I am always going to be here. Take that in stride if you wish, but it's going to be harder than that to get rid of me.

I can't ask you to change anything. You have to do what you have to do, and I understand that. I apologize for any guilt tripping I may have done in the immediate or max dated past, but everything I've said has been honest.

And that's all I do qualify to ask of you. Don't say things unless you're absolutely sure you mean them, because I believe every every word and letter and comma and especially any left carrots succeeded by numbers. I trust you as I've always trusted you, and I trust you with that responsibility. Again, I can't help it if you wish it taken in stride. I just thought it fair that you be made sentient of the fact.

For the record, I don't care how far away you are or how often you pop up in my proximity. Well, I don't care in the respect that it doesn't change much for me except the amount of time I spend missing you. Missing you while having you and missing you when not are two very, vastly different emotions.

I'm so goddamn selfish.

Wednesday, January 17

< love> You < /love>

The worst part about our situation is all of those awesome things that happened before we died. You used to say all these little things to me that made me smile and feel that fabled warm fuzzy feeling in my gut and all the butterflies would rush up my throat and bring a redness to my face. I don't know how much of that you knew. Most of the time, the sweet things you said were digital.

I <3 you. You're worth all the text messages in the world. Tell him I'll pay him to kill you. It's understandable, really, considering we weren't together for almost half of our relationship, but it's still a notable thought. And you know what the worst part, out of everything that ever happened and everything you said to me and I said to you? You told me those things were lies. Those little things I was living every day to hear from your lips or precede the enter button on your keyboard, they were lies. And yeah, later you told me that a lot of the things we had both said we hadn't meant, and it wasn't really as heartwrenching a blow as it must have felt, but it still felt. It still feels. I think the, "I never really loved you," part of it would have stung a lot less if you hadn't made it feel like you had before you said it. When you whole world whips around on you like that it's bound to leave some cracks around the middle. Do you know how I know that this was the worst of it all? It's the only thing I still cry about. I can recall the words you used when you severed romantic ties, I can remember the heartbreak I felt in the week before when I knew what was coming and didn't know how to stop it, I can remember the emptiness I felt when my question of <3? at the end of a conversation went unanswered. Of all of that, of everything, it hurt the most to know that you were there, all the time trying to make me feel the wonderful way you made me feel, and all the time knowing somewhere inside you that you didn't mean any of it.

I would have never done that to you.

And I know somehow that you didn't mean to do it to me, but, knowing and allowing myself to feel closure over the fact are two very different things.

It's okay though. The crying usually doesn't last long, and more times than not happens while I'm in the shower. A convenient way to hide it from everyone else in the entire world. It makes me wonder sometimes if I'm the type to take hits like that and crawl back, or if it's just you that makes me that way. Despite all the hurt and all the heartbreak and all of the everything, I still want you. I still love you. I still get that butterfly feeling when you say anything that might half-consciously suggest that you care about me at all. So what if I still cry about you? Doesn't the rest of that make it a mute point? Despite everything, you're still the moonlight in the night and the sunshine in the day. Sometimes I forget you're there to think about, sometimes I curse you for being too bright or not being bright enough, sometimes I wonder if you ever think about me. But if you ever left me completely, well. What a cold, dark unfriendly world I'd be, wouldn't I?

I worry sometimes because I know you read this, and I'm not always sure it's meant for you to read. I guess, it doesn't really matter. You're the only person I feel comfortable being such an open, pathetic book to. Maybe I'm just better at being honest when I'm writing things digitally.

Let me just find that enter key. There it is.

Thursday, January 11

I'm all alone all the time, all the time

You know what I realized today? You're the only person I ever miss. I have friends, sure. Really good friends, who are really good people and mean a lot to me and my everyday life. It's just that, when I'm away from them (especially if I'm with you) I'm easily distracted from the fact that I'm living life without them. I could live a year with you and you alone and have no need whatsoever to see the other people in my life. I don't know if that's good, or healthy-- but it's the truth.

And it works both ways. I could be surrounded by everyone else I've ever met and I'd still miss you. I'd constantly note things in my mind that I want to tell you, things that I wish you could have seen or heard. Sometimes I even offer up to conversation, "He would have loved that." And people look at me with that pouty puppy look that says "I feel so very sorry for you and your difficulty."

But really? I wouldn't want it any other way. It makes those few minutes I get to spend with you absolutely worth it. I would trade a year of my life for ten minutes on your couch.

The worst part of this is that I can love every gundamn inch of your body, and it isn't enough. It's never enough. I could love everything from the disheveled hair on your head to the funny little mole to the feet you relish holding three inches from my face-- and it isn't enough. It isn't even close. I have hair and moles and feet. I have habits and mannerisms and an overall presence that isn't something you can ignore. I know that. It tears me, but I know it. I almost accept it. I don't think I'll ever be able to fully accept it. You can't just pretend something that devastating doesn't exist.

Monday, January 1

Does that make sense?

I never miss you more than I do when I'm with you.




Why is it that every time the phone rings I secretly hope it's you?

Thursday, December 28

A Part of That

I am indecisive about everything. It is constant, it is chronic. Everything.

It is only about this that I am so unwaveringly certain. I would bet anything in the world on this one tremendous, insignificant observation. I love you.

And I've come to the conclusion regarding this fact that the only way I could ever manage the false impression that I've gotten over you would be to simply fail to coexist. In all labyrinth of choice, the only to choose is to leave. To sever contact, sever conversation, and sever the sinewy strings that bind my life-force to my body. Stay away for as long as it takes to forget you.

And you see, an act like this would only serve itself a death sentence.

Had I some manic scheme to follow this path it would leave me with two choices of fate. I would have nothing to do but to wait and, if by some miracle as lucky, die for sheer absence of required time. It seems impossible to survive the infinite ticking of hours and days that would record my efforts to scrub your mark from my mind. I simply do not have the time.

So, in an all more likely occurrence, I would live to my fated age pining and grieving and breathing your name in my sleep. Likelier so, I would die very young of a broken heart disease. I need those sinewy strings, you see.

So, not nearly as decisive as I am in earlier respect, I have still made a resolved decision.

I would rather live ten more minutes of time with you and wilt to dust than to spend any sort of time purposely apart. I would give years of my life to sit beside you, shoulders touching, breathing commented conversation into your ear in the darkened hush of the theater. I would trade my heartbeat for the chance to hear you call out my name and hurry to catch up. I would stop breathing if only you were to look at me.

And, so it is. Just like they said it would be.
I was destined for unrequited love.
You are the unlucky soul to have had it thrust upon you.
For that I apologize, but there's nothing I can do.

So, live. Breathe. Be happy.
When you have the time, let me tag along.

That's all I have credit to ask.

Friday, December 22

All Things Considered

If you lose something every time you use it, you make special precautions so as to remember where you left it and never lose it again.

So why is it that if you lose a piece of something everyday, you make no effort to gather the remaining portion close to you to prevent further loss? You ignore it. Pretend it isn't happening, and it'll go away. Literally.

Then, when you have nothing left, you mourn the loss instead of making an active move to regain what you've lost.


Why is it so hard to watch things slip through your fingers like sand? Why must I feel so out of control?

Wednesday, December 20

Rainbow Blue

I went to her with my problem, thinking to myself, "She is my only friend. If she can't psychoanalyze and figure out enough to explain to me what I should already know about myself, well. I don't think anyone can."

I explained the situation. She sat quietly, patiently. Listening.

"Ilion, you're puerile," was her answer. "Just because you don't point three hands to Zeus every time a pretty girl walks by means nothing except that you're more evolved than 97% of mankind."

"But, you just said I was puerile." I was quietly fuming.

"I did and you are. But, I suppose it isn't really your fault. No one else you could have ever possibly met would be in the same boat. You're one of a kind."

"I'm not following you. If I'm so great, why can't I feel great? Why can't I find a woman who makes me feel great, and whom I can make feel great in return? Why do I simultaneously want that kind of a relationship and want anything but that kind of relationship? Why am I so fucked up?"

"I told you, you're not fucked up," she noted, "You're puerile." She was matter-of-fact and I glared. Heatedly.

"That's all the advice I'm privy to today? That I'm devastatingly puerile? Damn, Tegan. I could've asked my mother to tell me that much. Forget it. I'm leaving."

"Now, don't be cross with me, Ilion. You're just a confused little boy and I'm not telling you what you want to hear. I wish I could tell you this was perfectly normal, love, but it isn't. That's a cold, hard fact of nature. Not everyone is normal. Don't be too disappointed, though. You're on a better track than most others. You'll never get your heart broken."

"You have some hasty gall to assume that, love. I'll have you know I am no stranger to heartbreak."

"I know. You talk about it enough. So you thought when you were five that you'd love that twinkly little Melia Morey next door. So it didn't work out. So it hurt. You were over it the moment your mother bought you a puppy."

"So I didn't just stop feeling hurt, Tegan. I stopped feeling."

"Nonsense. If you'd stopped feeling you wouldn't be here now asking me if you'll ever be happy again."

"Wanting to be happy and feeling a emotion are two terribly different things."

"You think want, when not coupled with a basic human need like hunger or thirst, isn't an emotion?"

"I'd have to argue that feeling emotion is a basic human need."

"You're not just puerile, Ilion," she said, sighing. "You're infuriating."

"It's part of my charm. Anything else? Am I hideous? Am I irritating? Am I a love-less, sex-less, hermit of a human with a dehydrated heart, tougher to chew than nails?"

"Maybe. I'm no judge of such things."

"You are infuriating. You've been talking to me for a quarter hour and you haven't said a thing."

"You want to know what I really think, Ilion? I hesitate to tell you as usually when I do you shoot me down like an enemy jet. You come asking for advice and opinion when all you really want is reinforcement of your own."

"... I won't deny that, but I won't admit to it either," I said, reserved, feeling mildly nauseous.

"A fair trade."

There was silence then and I stared at her. She looked sad, really. Honestly, heart-deep in remorse for things she'd said and things I'd done in response to them.

"I'm sorry, Tegan," I said finally. I couldn't stand to see her like that. "I want to hear what you think. I always want to hear what you think."

"You will be loved, Ilion. Trust me on that. Someday you'll meet someone who has just enough in common with you, but also a creative outstanding spark that keeps you coming to her, desperate to get to know her, desperate to discover what makes her tick. You'll watch her move and wonder how no one else in the world could have never noticed it before. You'll reach out to touch her and your heart will pound like the gears of a ship sailing full speed. Just her proximity will send electric shocks across your skin, the feel of her clothing against your fingertips will send the hairs on your next into their own erotic praise to Zeus. You'll fall faster and harder and feel wonderful things you could have never felt for Melia Morey. You will love her with your very being. You'll feel as if you could give the next fifty years of your life just to spend an afternoon with her, doing something completely mundane and stupid. Like playing chess."

I smiled at that remark.

"I only play chess with you, Tegan."

"Something else then. Maybe you'll find a girl who can build rainbows. You'll build the planes and she'll build the rainbows, and you'll live in the sky and the clouds."

"Building planes and building rainbows are two completely different things, Tegan."

"You're doing this to piss me off. You have to stop denying me and absorb what I'm saying to you. I'm scared for you, if you don't. If you go on living like this, thinking there's something wrong with you, thinking you're lacking something just because your aren't thinking the exact same levittown thoughts that everyone else is thinking. You're special, Ilion. Someday you'll find a girl that understands that and can show you that. You just have to look. She could be anywhere from the eastern coast to the western coast of the most eastern land, and the water that separates them. But she's out there. She's somewhere. Go look. Find her, and then come back and tell me you're not anything."

She just kept going. She was ranting now, vomiting words at ninety beats per minute. She threw so much emotion into the lecture that I couldn't interrupt. I didn't even know what to say when she finally finished. She couldn't even look at me; I thought she might be crying.

"Do you feel that way?"

"What? What do you mean? We're not talking about me. We're talking about you Ilion. Havne't you paid any attention? Honestly, I..."

"It was just a simple question, Tegan. I see no reason you should be so defensive. You speak from emotion, I can tell. You're not just speculating. You've found him, haven't you? The man that makes you feel that way? Who paints your rainbows?"

"I thought I had. Some of us can't build planes the way you can, Ilion."

She started away, head bowed and hair in her face. She walked as if she had been defeated, as if a tremendous failure had left her with nothing. She looked, just sad. She looked so incredibly sad. Perhaps even, possibly... heartbroken.

"Tegan, wait. Who was it? Who did this to you?"

"Don't worry about it, Ilion. It isn't his fault he favors standing around in this tiny town, playing afternoon chess with me when he should be out looking for a rainbow with more colors than just blue."

She left then, gone eons before I could even begin to process what she had told me. I touched the rock she had been sitting on and felt a breeze send a chill up my arm.

"She's right," I admitted finally. "I am puerile."

Sunday, December 17

Nightmare of You

Last night, my dog had a nightmare. He stood up from the carpeted floor and barked in that heart-wrenching, blood curdling way that would make any conscious person jump in fright and produce a slightly greater amount of epinephrine. When my dog had this nightmare, I was sleeping. All at once, as I tried to leap the gap from a peaceful rest into a dream, something interrupted me.

Every horrible thing that has ever happened in a dream accosted me simultaneously. The horror-heroes from every terrifying move I have ever seen were knocking at the front door to my house. I was on fire. My flesh was crawling. There were snakes. There were screams. There was you. I'm not afraid of you, but all fear is rooted in the immediateness of death.

Heartbreak is as close to death as one can manage and still maintain a pulse.

Saturday, December 16

A Pirate's Life for Me

Why does it still feel like there's a large leaden anchor trapped in my chest, affixed to the center bone and slowly, constantly, chronically leaking metallic poisons into the very blood which passes through and flows directly to the shredded, tired heart that beats beside it? It made sense, weeks ago. Months ago. It's natural to get nauseous if the boat keeps rocking, but the boat made a home at the sandy bottom of the sea a long time ago. It tried hard. The starboard sails flapped desperately in the wind and rain and storm. They billowed and creaked and were weighted down with terrible amounts of salty moisture from the sea.

But the ship still sank.

Why, do you ask? How, with all of the sweat and blood of the starboard sails did the ship still sink? Because every port side mechanism, from the rotted planks to the moth eaten sails, was completely numb and unresponsive. It watched the starboard sails strain with the weight of the rain and tear in the gailing winds, and sat quietly and unmoving in the storm.

As for the captain, he sat alone in the crow's nest, watching as the ship fought with itself, each side opposed while rightfully working toward the same goal, and cried coppery tears into his pirate garb,

nursing the leaded anchor in his old weary chest.

Friday, December 1

Sidewinder

I used to be a writer. In fact, I used to be a damn good writer. I'd sit down with determination, attentive and focused, and that'd be it. I'd place my fingers gently on the key pattern commonly noted as Home Row, and I'd let them fly. I'd let the words pour out of my fingertips at a rate faster than I could keep up in my mind, and I'd wander in thought. I'd float around the piece, surrounding each paragraph with notes to a million tiny references to my life. I'd watch, out of my own mind and body, until it was finished. Then I'd read it. I can't express the kind of pride and emotion one can absorb from the proofreading of a truly good piece of material and know that, however surreal it had seemed, those words had dripped from the same ten fingertips you have known and used for the entirety of your existence. It's like discovering a part of you you never knew existed.

Millions of people feel this way about millions of things. Anyone who creates is entitled to that overwhelming sense of self-importance and worth. Artists, musicians, athletes... computer programmers. It's all you. It's your day, your hour, your spotlight. Your muse.

Unfortunately, my muse is ill. She has been neglected, malnourished and mistreated. I am forever torn by guilt at the realization that I myself did this to her. Trivial unimportant things became too important, took too much time. I didn't feed her. I didn't attend to her.

Eventually I stopped thinking about her all together. It's been roughly 18 months since I've unchained the choke collar from around her neck and let her run free in the backyard of my mind. Now, I'm not sure I trust her. Things have changed a lot since she has been here. The grass is browning, the skies are dark, the rivers dry, the wildlife savage. There is no guarantee that Muse will be safe.

And still, is she safe? Is she thriving locked up and caged in the basement of my consciousness?

Am I to remedy the problem by freeing her or letting her die? Which would be the humane way? I loved Muse, once. We were like the child and puppy at the park who grow up and grow old and fade in their intense love for one another. I am guilty. I have betrayed the trust of my muse though she has remained loyal.

I am sorry, Muse. I am lost without you to tell me what to do.

And again, and again...

No matter what happens to me I will never be able to escape the haunting incorrigible realization that my first boyfriend never touched his lips to mine in that lusted display of affection known as a kiss.

My brother Loves Me

My brother bet me $5 that you and I would grow old together, and two days later when you broke up with me I bought five boxes of the most bittersweet twinkies I have ever eaten in my life.

Sunday, November 5

Fanfiction

"You know, Draco Malfoy," he said, advancing on him and pointing at his nose in a threatening manner. "For someone so goddamn self-sacrificing, you are a self-rightous conceited bastard. Yeah, you do things other people wouldn't. You feed orphans. You donate to the poor. You're an all around bright-as-fuck star of a saint. But you know what? That's a stupid way to spend your life."

"Potter, don't act like you know me. I'm living a life. I have a beautiful wife and two children. Twins. Russel and Raven. I wanted to name them Russel and Crow, but Tasha wouldn't let me. Yeah, I donate money. What the hell else am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. How about genuinely caring for someone? How about that?"

"What, like you care about people? If Voldemort wasn't so stuck up with killing you you wouldn't lay a finger on him. You'd be running and cowering just like everyone else. You're nothing special, Potter. You're just another peg."

"You're getting off topic. You're attacking me and everything I'm saying, just like you always do. You don't listen. You never just listen. You always have to have something to say. You always have to be the one worse-off. I don't know if you've noticed, Malfoy, but my life? It kind of sucks. Actually it really sucks. Yeah, I'm not going to lie. If I wasn't so personally involved I couldn't do a lot of the things I do. But I don't go off on a soapbox preteding that I'm immaculate and pristine and oh so spotlessly perfect. I'm a right ball of fuckup sprinkled with shit and pepper. I'm aware of that. I don't go off trying to pass it off as self-sacriment"

"Yeah. Well. I guess that makes you better than me, doesn't it?"

"You're doing it again! Not everything is about YOU, Malfoy!"

"Yeah, okay," Draco said slowly. "So maybe you're right. Maybe I'm ridiculously selfish and manipulative. So, now what? Any suggestions on how I am to remedy that?" Harry glared at him.

"Here's one," he said, backing up. "Blow it out your ass."

Harry left the office, and Draco never saw him again. He did, however, send him one or two "I'm sorry" checks every so many months, just out of the goodness of his heart. That's what Harry really needed, of course. A few hundred pound notes and a constant agonizing reminder of the self and false titled "romance". He didn't need Draco. He didn't need anyone.

Heartbreak

It's been a few months since the meteor hit, and I've just started to get the feeling that the trees will grow back. I know the dinosaurs are gone forever and I will miss them outstandingly, but this is a chance for a new world to grow, isn't it?

And then he said to me, "I never really loved you."


And the sky filled with light as the rocks poured from the atmosphere.

Saturday, October 28

Curiosity

The other day, I was walking down the street and I noted a large crowd in front of a condemned building. Curiosity being of my many flaws, I crossed the traffic-free intersection and made my way through the crowd. To the right of me was a woman of middle age, holding a napkin to her nose and looking more than slightly green. I asked her what the trouble was, and she moaned, clearly in a terrible state.

"Oh, it's simply horrid! A poor man, just gutted in the elevator; disembowled, disgraced, his innards everywhere for the passerby to see!"

"My," I said, cocking my head to the side. "You're certainly right. What a terrible invasion of privacy."

Friday, October 27

Mascu-linda

I saw a woman who was more masculine than most men, and I was content with the knowledge that I was far superior to her only until her stunning boyfriend rushed around the corner and swept her off her feet.

Tuesday, October 24

A really odd old nasty cheese smell

Is it strange to you that there's this really odd old nasty cheese smell that reminds me of you, because it's what the park bench smelled like that first time we hung out together outside of school?

Because there's this really odd old nasty cheese smell and, honestly, I don't think I'd be the same person today if I hadn't had the chance to press my nose agains that park bench.

Monday, October 23

Grow me a penis, my dear

He laughed and said he'd love me if I grew a penis. Secretly I check every single day.

Friday, October 20

Storywriter

And maybe if the story had a happy ending, it wouldn't be so hard to admit that it is the story of our lives.

It doesn't have to be. They made mistakes so that we wouldn't. Why are you making their fate our own? We are not the same as them.

I don't want you to come to me in twenty years to see the baby that is mine but isn't yours. The baby that was born out of a comfortable settlement. The baby that would never know roots in true love.

Denial

Yes, Doctor, I'd like to make an appointment. What's the problem? Well, you see, this clear, salty-like water solution... well, it keeps dripping. Dripping from where? Well my eyes of course. Why are you laughing? There are other symptoms. Yes. It feels as if I've swallowed a very large rock and I think there may be something wrong with my heart. It beats loud and deep and it... well it hurts. What do you mean this is all perfectly normal? Let me see your degree. Yes, of course I've had these symptoms before, but... No, sir. No. You must be out of your mind. I'm going to get a second opinion. I'm certain that this is not normal.

I'm certain this shouldn't last this long.

My first boyfriend

No matter who you are or how long you live or what you do with your life, there are a few distinguished things about you that you can never change.

My first boyfriend never kissed me.

I am in love with Aric Butts

The first piece of clothing a boy has ever leant to me was a pair of socks. It was from a very sexy gay boy named Aric, who only gave them to me because mine were wet and messing up his floors.

Thursday, October 19

A Story about Goldfish

In my opinion, we were perfect. We had everything we needed; just us in our fishbowl. Sure, we had the same problems that everyone has. Sometimes we couldn't eat all the food that they gave us. Sometimes kids would tap on the glass and poke at the water. But we-- we were perfect.
We were happy.

Then, you left me. You jumped out of the water. I was alone in the bowl and you had joined a school of fish I couldn't understand. I stewed in my own feces for a few days, swimming in circles and listening as the tapping on the glass grew louder and the water became cloudy and cold.

I remembered what they had said to me about there being so many more fish in the sea and I decided to jump out of the bowl. I don't know what I was expecting to find there; you? Another fish exactly like you? Something completely different? Anything that would make this all go away?

The water was thick and it was hard to swim. The toxins and chemicals had made the seafish mutated and frightening. I didn't like it. I couldn't breathe there. I felt so alone.

So I did the only thing I could do. I came back to the bowl.

But whatever I was looking for wasn't there. Just the same stale water we'd swum through together, the same food pellets we'd shared. The same tapping we'd cursed, the same glass that had kept us in a microcosm of our own, isolated from the rest of the world. Perfect, alone and together.

And they say goldfish can't remember.

As I turned the page...

As I turned the page to the next accounting problem, I stopped breathing. I was the proprietor, and I had his last name. Fate and irony are coldhearted lovers.

I didn't realize...

I didn't realize my house was on fire until a complete stranger opened the front door and I thought to myself over the high-bass classic rock, "Is someone downstairs cooking waffles?"

And as the fight ended...

And as the fight ended, we realized that we have never fought about anything with even the slightest bit of significance.