| "Just Dew and toast, please..." |
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| 11:42pm 30/12/2009 |
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mood:  nauseated music: Traffic outside of my house...
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And so it starts. When crying in an Irish pub is out of character over bangers and mash. That I become so nauseous, I honestly think I've been poisoned with cinnamon. My stomach just keeps rolling and rolling; it'll be time for Mountain Dew and toast again.
I thought I could avoid this, the pain, the denial, what (I think) will be destruction. I thought I could just walk away, just box it up and be able to move on. No words would have to be uttered; friends would just come to know the year of 2009 as being a general fail, but otherwise, a drop in the bucket.
The door will close. I'll close in on myself, protect myself, try to stop the racking sobs which will no doubt start tomorrow. New Year's Eve should be a time for celebration, but instead, it's a time for death.
Just rolling, rolling. My stomach is protesting my even writing this, but my brain won't stop churning.
The scenarios, the dreams, the speech, the future? Everything I've had, I know will be crushed. And if it's not? A friend told me that it hasn't happened yet, and we could still have hope. Not a lot of hope, but maybe a little. But this hope isn't even the size of a flame from a lighter; it maybe has the capacity of being as bright as a single ember. But if it DOES happen? I just may die from shock.
(No, really. Like if this goes how I "wanted," I may just pass right the fuck out. People will have to carry me, resuscitate me, and prop me up at my desk on Monday.)
Please, God, Goddess, sweet baby Jesus, blue fluffy aloe plant, anybody I've prayed to over the years. Please give me the strength to get through this. Please steady my hand and help me to get through this. I reread the entry from June 2006 and I remember how that felt; this is similar, too similar. I thought I would never have to go through it again.
Will you show up on my doorstep in twenty years? I've been thinking about that. You asking me about the pictures, the videos, the stories. Would my dead eyes blink back at you? Would I recognize you?
Would you recognize me?
I hope you don't miss me. I hope I'm a forgotten story like others are no doubt to become. I hope you don't remember me, or wonder where I am. That I'm remembered fondly, instead of with a sneer, a downward glance, or pain in the heart.
I think it's ironic that I'm doing this for you. You may not remember, but I know I will.
I'm doing it for me, too, really though. I need to figure out what's going on, what is the question, the answer is not 42. I got into a long, long argument with a friend the other night about what was my answer, did I have a reason, and other such vagueness. So wishy-washy, not typical Jess.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Waiting for something, anything. Something to happen, or sever, or finally bonk me in the head so I understand that it's not the same. Or maybe it is? Maybe I'm in denial; that really could be it.
If only I didn't think I was being lied to. I have this feeling, this feeling in my bones, my marrow, that I am being consistently lied to about everything. Usually, honesty is the best form, but lately, it's been lies, lies, lies. It could be the truth, but my gut tells me otherwise.
The gut that's currently spinning, spinning, spinning.
I'm going away for a spell, and I'm not packing tonight. I don't want to; I want to go to sleep, not dream, wake up, and be able to work through it. Then drive Onyx and not crash over the side of a river/mountain. I want to welcome the new year with gusto, maybe some beer, and say "Good riddance!" to 2009 and maybe the decade as a whole. These are things I want to do. However, part of me thinks I'll go to work, be a zombie, drive North (not wreck new car), and end up a blubbering mess in my own damned car while a GPS gibbers at me.
Spinning, and churning, and nauseousness, and general fail...
... it's going to be awesome. |
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| Oh! So, this is how we play again... |
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| 08:22pm 28/12/2009 |
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mood:  amused music: TV in the living room...
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The Game is one of sly innuendos, words that fly out of mouths without being properly formed. It's words, actions, eyes roving over a body illuminated by blue lights off a dashboard. It's a grab of skin, a snicker behind a busy brain. It's a chuckle and wide eyes through a swinging door.
It's making me dance in my kitchen while pop music is on. It's making me cocky. It's making me rock and roll through my house with a slotted spoon as my microphone.
In short, it's fun.
I haven't played The Game in many moons. I really think the last time I laid heavy Game on anyone, it was Clementine, and we all know how that came out. Even with LiJ, it was poorly activated Game on his part, which is why I stopped playing in general.
This? Is different. Somehow.
First off, I am rusty at the Game. Secondly, and more importantly, I am very dangerous at The Game. It's like I take on a COMPLETELY different persona. Friends are amazed- and want to sleep with me. It's awesome how tight my Game is.
So now, we dance. It's good to be up front and honest, and Lord, I sincerely appreciate that. Give me just a little time to iron things out, and maybe it'll go somewhere...
... or maybe this will be the catalyst everybody needs, and I'll squash it as quickly as it started. |
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| Always with the dreams in Connecticut... |
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| 02:23pm 26/12/2009 |
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mood:  intrigued music: Smurf and Metal Darts trying to make pancakes and not set us en flambe...
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In Connecticut for the holly jolly holidays, when for whatever reason, you invaded my dreams. It wasn't fair, really; I was miles and states away from you. Regardless, you invaded my dreaming space, which I welcomed, oddly. The only thing I can use to explain it is the events of this week coloring my subconscious.
I had a long conversation with Otter Bucket about you on the drive up, Kayrin promptly ignoring us/sleeping in the backseat while Otter Bucket did the first leg of driving. She wants to make sure my intentions are pure, which I found odd since she's never even laid eyes on you. She asked if I ever got closure, which I didn't, but wants whatever is happening to be because of us and not because of incidents past. I guess no rebounding, in other words. But she's right; I wouldn't want to hurt you by accident because my own head is/has been so clouded for months.
But in typical Jessie fashion, maybe I'm thinking too hard about this entire situation. Maybe you hollering at me is all I need to realize there is more grass in the entire neighborhood and I'm not meant to just sulk and be miserable for the rest of my days. That's somewhat comforting, right?
Off of The Emo, you need to figure out how we're going to play this game. I don't know what you want; you said you didn't really have a plan. And well, I'm Jess: we NEED a plan. My brain tried out all sorts of arrangements while I was sleeping, so I have some options to discuss if you're interested.
Another subsidiary of the dream was the other coming under the pretense of normal circumstances, and breaking my heart by lifting it back up. I know it was because of talking to another friend of mine and what is currently going on in his life, but that little snippet, while welcomed, was not needed. It tugged a little too hard on my heart strings, waiting on a train don't come.
In short, thank you for giving me a damned good night of sleep. Granted, I woke up confused in Connecticut, with Smurf asking me questions of "What were YOU doing last night?" Regardless, it was a welcome dreamscape versus the others which cause me to wake up in the morning and cry. Even if nothing comes of it, and we don't experience the shortness of Six-Foot-Three and your too-tall head, I was definitely thankful for the distraction...
... ehm, VERY thankful. |
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