9:45 p.m. - April 10, 2002
raining fire
My list of self-demands has grown to include a scrapbook, a collage, a book of cartoons/sketches/commentaries, a collection of music I'm not embarrassed to play for people, and a perfect maybe-semi-autobiographical novel-ish thing. Why is the God of All Creative Things punishing me? Well rounded is one thing; insane is another, and they shouldn't be the same, trust me. I just rearranged my CD's by genre, hoping they'd look better. Also I'd like to swing on the monkey bars at the playground, but it's dark and cold, and during the times where it was warm and light (and it was today; astonishing) I was at work, playing Minesweeper endlessly.

And I know how sick everyone must be of hearing me bitch about how I miss Taylor, although I guess I only really bitch about it in my head, or sometimes to Camille. Either way, go fuck off, or, well, I didn't mean that, nor did I know who I was talking to. But I miss him anyway, whatever it was that he was; whoever it is that he is (I never know which tense to use with him, which gives you an idea of how fucked up our communication system is, and how likely it is that he's not actually alive at any given time, but phoo) and I want what we were back. Now. While we're on that subject, which I'm sick of already, because it's just the same old words over and over, (which I can stand to FEEL forever but not write, as it makes me feel pathetic), I wish it were easier to tell Mike the whole long drawn out story. It's a long drawn out story that I feel uncomfortable telling to anyone anyway, because even those who were there, other than Camille and I, have passed it off as our overactive imaginations, ahem Erik, and now probably think of it as something we made up to make our lives more interesting. Even I sometimes find myself forgetting what it was really like; the tears, the visions, the feel of not tasting and not smelling and not feeling, which was the fucking strangest thing I have ever felt since or ever will feel, (or rather, not feel: laughter cue) most likely, since it seems to be completely gone.
Anyway, Mike's realist mind will reject the whole thing before it's all the way out of my mouth. Maybe even before it's all the way out of Camille's mouth, but I think at least he'll give her a chance. Ok, sorry, that was bitter and snippy, but true, since when I delve deeper into something, he'll back up, (backing up, (that, looking away, and saying 'don't touch me') are the catch actions of the year; do I bite? no!) as if she does, he'll try to get her to open up more, which, by the way, is the absolute worst way to get anything out of her, just for the record. Thank you. ::stops rant before it starts making trouble:; i don't want any mindfucking right now.

Nobody gets this, but still; I am an angry spider.

And angry that Paxil and weed can't coexist peacefully. Why must it always be the small pleasures that drift away on little clouds of (green) smoke?

-----

'.. it's been raining fire far too long.' -Daniel Johns & Paul Mac, 'Rain'

previous - next