The fracture or break is very high up the ramus and very close to my ear. Every time I poke it hard enough I can hear and feel it flex a little so I try not to touch it or shift my jaw left or right when I do yawn with my teeth locked together. Of course I didn't go see a doctor. I have no health insurance. What's the doctor going to do? Wire my teeth together and tell me to get plenty of rest and not move my jaw. I can do that without the wires and the $5000 bill. Sure there may be other fractures along the side of the jaw bone, but inspection says they're only fractures if they do exist and not clean breaks. Thanks to wisdom teeth that were never removed growing up because they were so badly impacted the surgery was out of the question for one reason or another by the time I was screened for them, the inside of my cheek took some thick lacerations at the point of impact. I think one or two of molar roots may have cracked causing swelling and pain in the angle. Time will tell. Hell, if my wisdom teeth on that side die and eventually fall out, I'm all for it. Who am I going to be kissing in the next two- three years anyway.
The first week of a liquid diet and I'm down 17 pounds. I'm not fat, but I always feel fat, so it's helping my body image issues a great deal, oddly enough. I keep thinking over the evening last Saturday. After a great pow-wow with a buddy and his friend who had to leave a little earlier we decided to head out and grab some ice cream and, I was thinking, a pack of smokes on the side for me, happy to be alive and a little agitated, but more than anything else, happy to be out for a walk in the deep night air with a gorgeous moon. Hopping along, we came across a bunch of teens loitering in a schools front yard and a police van telling them to disperse and we walked on, exchanging glances. They were obviously doing it wrong. Mulling in the shadows instead of out beneath the street lights on your way to get some tasty ice cream and smokes and then hop back home to finish the night off with a few beers and your friend.
They were doing it wrong and it was funny and in my happiness and joy with the night and my pal and the prospect of ice cream, I shouted to them so, with a few more curse words and some gestures, but simply poking fun at how they choose to spend their time when they could be walking to get ice cream instead of haunting a schools front lawn. They shouted back and I shouted back, because there's so much more to life than trying to intimidate people all of the time. There's friendship, and the moon, and ice cream, and cigarettes, and the fun a Saturday unperturbed by anyone who dares believe they can rain on my happy day with a friend I haven't seen in far too long. Who cares if a couple of happy travelers don't clutch their purses or speak in hushed voices as they pass you by. You're a bunch of kids on a schools closed front lawn trying to intimidate and strike fear into the "mean streets of Pittsburgh" from the shadows. Ooga booga! It was hilarious.
Those boys took it the wrong way and decided to follow and encircle us. "All of this happiness must be stomped out!" is what I think they said collectively. I had no desire to fight. Those roads are way behind me and ice cream was ahead of me and the police were just up the block a moment ago. I do not live in a world where I will trade ice cream for police questioning. Ever! I figured there'd be some yelling and shoving and they'd go on their merry and moody and belligerent way after pushing us around and we'd continue on ours and get those evening treats and continue our happy Saturday. It wasn't to be. I was hit from a blind angle right in the left corner of my jawbone just beneath my ear and dropped like a bag of rocks for a few seconds. My friend, struck too, was lucky enough to get hit from a direction his head was more or less facing and did not suffer more than cosmetic damage in a black eye and a cut or two.
I didn't realize the discomfort I felt the following day was far more than a bruise on my cheek until the day after when the pain got worse and worse until I couldn't chew anything, much less open my mouth. I guess those boys won. My happiness silenced by a fractured jaw bone and quite possibly broken molars inside the bone itself (hoping that's not the case, but we'll know in another week or two or if the violence of them being forcefully shifted a few millimeters out of their homes has caused inflammation that will take some time to heal [or if infection is underway as we write *cue doom music*]).
I keep thinking through that fateful stretch of night. I keep asking myself why the hell would they do that? Keep telling myself it was entirely uncalled for. I know why I was sucker punched. Their fear. That moment when my friend was hit and they thought "now or never because if this other larger guy wasn't going to put up a fight before he just may A: decide to put up a fight now, B: shout or call for help, C: both a and b." I keep wondering why they didn't just yell back and go their separate way. There was no chance they considered he and I, a couple of drunk 30 year old men out on a walk together, to be a threat to them. Why would they do that? Why would they attack us so viciously?
And then it dawned on me. Thinking back 12 years. How righteously furious I was then for dozens of reasons, some complex some as simple as I wanted an excuse to pass on the hurt inside of me to anyone who gave me an excuse to. Ready to fight anyone and any inanimate object that didn't "respect" me no matter how pointless or stupid. I didn't want to rob you. I wanted to hurt you as badly as I could get away with. Year after year after year, getting more angry, more sensitive, more irrational, but always questioning it, breaking it apart, tearing down the engine, trying to figure out what the hell it was making this bomb of my body go tick tick tick. I still haven't figured it out exactly.
Through years of study, years of violence toward others sometimes warranted, often times not, culminating in things I will never be able to take back, I left those courses behind me. Thirty years old all I care about is writing, getting home in one piece, spending time with my cats, seeing my friends when I can, and taking care of the only body I have left until my brain breaks apart or my body just will not run anymore. I could care less who respects me and who doesn't. I could care less who breaks my jaw and who decides to be merciful. Save for a handful of very specific, very important, exceptions, if I ever get so mad that the only language I can speak is the original dialect, violence itself, I will speak through breaking my own skin and nerves, not someone else's. The simpler truth is that for most of those kids, they will never learn or even begin to learn how to learn that things could be different. Some of them will end up dead. Others will circle their private drains until their live's dwindle and die out.
Those idiots aren't there yet. It was stupid of me to believe a 12 year gap in understanding what a good night with a friend really is, and what it can mean in the face of a world, in the face of my world once dominated by violence. They didn't silence my happiness. If worst comes to worst and I can never quite use my jaw the way I could before that night again, I have always wanted to learn sign language.
Do I hate them for it? Of course. Would I like to find one of them, knock him senseless, wrap him duct tape and put him in the bed of my truck and take him home? Would I like to duct tape his arm to a sheet of plywood after gagging him with #0 steel wool and use my belt sander grind away the first knuckle of each digit of his immobilized hand and then shatter the wrist of his other? Would I like to drive down river and dump his body at a drainage gate? Of course. That would achieve nothing. I'd be happy for a while until the next week when the pain set in again and I would need to find another one and that life is not for me as long as I continue to refuse it and allow the rest of myself to flourish. Maybe they'll learn. Maybe a few of them will think about and ask themselves essential questions.
Happiness and love are precious and not to be squandered under all but the most extreme circumstances. Especially not in this world's economy.
///=sigh= I could really go for a slice of pizza right about now. I'll melt some ice cream instead.
Clean with alcohol only. Do not attempt to replace blown fuses. Do not remove access panels. Return to certified mechanic for regular maintenance. Made in the USA.
Showing posts with label insurance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label insurance. Show all posts
11/25/13
Atari
Going back in time to enjoy the things I love. It has been strange hanging out with people I've only just met and their siblings. The day before was silly violent and antagonized by the middle child in her family. Her being the middle child and antagonizing everyone around her. She was the back end of an eight banger. It was difficult to identify and made more hilarious by our friend asking if he could bang her older sister. I'm pretty sure it was not up to me or her sister's fiance. Pretty sure whether or not she wanted to get mucky was and still is completely up to her. You can come along for the ride if you want to.
"I've sucked enough dicks in my life." ~ Tammy
We had this ongoing bet about how long it would take before she ran to history no one else knew, and I chimed in,but it was half hearted. I just wanted to belong in the conversation. Not a pissing contest of abuse as much as a revisiting of the things that inform and continue to inform our existence. It's kind of like driving a car. Think about it this way: put in 40 degrees of left input to your road facing wheels and they will turn fifteen degrees. Learning compensation. Learning how much you actually do burn when you proclaim you've torched it to soil.
It really is that simple though and that laughable and that much more enjoyable than trying to slug away one for one. That much more enjoyable than trying to get one unit of output for each understood unit of input. Existence does not work that way. There are boosters constantly. Whether you like it or not, everything that you do is boosted and amplified upon reception. It's the combat feedback loop. I hit you. How hard did I hit you? Seven? Six? How hard will you hit me back? At least a six. What will I feel a six is? Put a number on it. At least a five, but you don't know so tag me at least at a six, but that six comes in at an eight because I already ate a six and you know that because you've been hurt before and know what a six feels like and know I probably played it soft and a jump cut is in order.
Into the flame, into the fire. I have a lot of love pent up and no way to spend it. Why you no want to cuddle no more?
Fucking cowards.
Sometimes we have to back off because we know they will take it the wrong way and run with it. Does it hurt to be alone? Sure. Does it hurt enough to make changes? No. One thing I've learned about myself is that distance is still necessary. What I view as an appropriate relationship is still not, by and large, viewed the same way and it's not heartbreaking the way it used to be. It used to break me apart in fantastic ways and now it's more of a "okay, we're here right now. Option A, B, and J." Cash out now, because two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps and we're at J anyway.
I'm getting back to the things I love and it's been difficult. It's been a battles by turn. I have been trying not to think about it, but the successful artists I know had a pretty solid backing before they had outside backing making their whiles worth something. I want to cut their faces off and wear them and drink the blood that trickles into my mouth while I talk behind their skin and I want to be able to talk to them about it, but "that's not okay." And still they call themselves artists and photographers in the meantime never having actually known what the mean times really are. I'm no teacher, but I am willing to crash course them.
Stop cock teasing me. Stop front loading me. I cannot handle that kind of nonsense. Take your vacations and enjoy your languages, but do not fucking... ....I'm going to war. There are rules. Aligning with my own. Measures not drastic.
Deterioration. Leaving memories at least as fast as they come. I drive toward new ones as constantly as I can because there really is nowhere else to be and I am okay with that. It's a riot. I feel silly sometimes bending over to pick up the shards of myself and sometimes the entire exercise feels machinated. What I really want to do is tattoo you and have you tattoo me whatever you want. Battling down the brain chiggies. The glitch farm.
I could look back in time, but it won't change the view. The hardest I ever cheated was kissing another woman and being truthful about it. What makes you okay? Violently successful people who don't understand how they were set up to succeed aggravate me. Everything they know are things I should have known when they did, but had to learn later because, like those post coin op machines with the news on their face, I had no coins to insert and no nudge on top of that to pay attention to them and am now taking notice and am now earning quarters to slot in and am now getting up to speed with and am not mad about it. A little sorry, but not mad.
Through the TV eye. A wrecka. I said "hey!" Being bummy with no standards is okay. I'm not going to hurt you if you promise not to hurt me. Dhali Lama and llama beans and trying to be profound in every little thing. It's silly. The outside world bleeds in and the inside world bleeds out and really i just want you to say you're sorry. Even that will be and is meaningless because I won't remember it until I'm steamed and wishing I was not so forgettable.
Power. Something cosmic. It takes a lot out of me to be here and I know it takes a lot out of you to be here with me. Diet on anxiety. I wish I could fill my stomach whenever I wanted to, but I've been grained to the scale of rice to need as little as possible and digest want as a hack hazard that is a crumple zone. I want to be a foodie. I really do. Up chucked bringing to do more with less.
Every time I get something new to me I expect it to break down immediately or somehow fail me because no one gives something valuable to them up for grabs. Except people like me who do not deal in currency. Your word is your word. Your bond is your bond. Everything starts and ends at that initial hand shake. No farther and no less. Things new to me are things old and decrepit to others. Not a revitalization as much as a re-purposing. There is love in that.
Time elapsed, time remaining.
There was this one time I set my cat's whiskers to flame, not understanding that he was made of fur. The whiskers caught and burned down to his coat and we were both surprised at how fast it was able to go. Needless to say, or perhaps, for everyone's sake, we never got that ticky tacky mad again, but if I need to I know some good out of the way spots to bury you if you want to roll those dice. I'm a bad liar and a good forgetter. Push upstairs ;")
I will play asteroids with you for days.
///Daedelus - "My Beau" at night, I think of you and do not call because our wars are different and mounting a head after a battle means something wildly different to me than it does to you, no slight
"I've sucked enough dicks in my life." ~ Tammy
We had this ongoing bet about how long it would take before she ran to history no one else knew, and I chimed in,but it was half hearted. I just wanted to belong in the conversation. Not a pissing contest of abuse as much as a revisiting of the things that inform and continue to inform our existence. It's kind of like driving a car. Think about it this way: put in 40 degrees of left input to your road facing wheels and they will turn fifteen degrees. Learning compensation. Learning how much you actually do burn when you proclaim you've torched it to soil.
It really is that simple though and that laughable and that much more enjoyable than trying to slug away one for one. That much more enjoyable than trying to get one unit of output for each understood unit of input. Existence does not work that way. There are boosters constantly. Whether you like it or not, everything that you do is boosted and amplified upon reception. It's the combat feedback loop. I hit you. How hard did I hit you? Seven? Six? How hard will you hit me back? At least a six. What will I feel a six is? Put a number on it. At least a five, but you don't know so tag me at least at a six, but that six comes in at an eight because I already ate a six and you know that because you've been hurt before and know what a six feels like and know I probably played it soft and a jump cut is in order.
Into the flame, into the fire. I have a lot of love pent up and no way to spend it. Why you no want to cuddle no more?
Fucking cowards.
Sometimes we have to back off because we know they will take it the wrong way and run with it. Does it hurt to be alone? Sure. Does it hurt enough to make changes? No. One thing I've learned about myself is that distance is still necessary. What I view as an appropriate relationship is still not, by and large, viewed the same way and it's not heartbreaking the way it used to be. It used to break me apart in fantastic ways and now it's more of a "okay, we're here right now. Option A, B, and J." Cash out now, because two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps and we're at J anyway.
I'm getting back to the things I love and it's been difficult. It's been a battles by turn. I have been trying not to think about it, but the successful artists I know had a pretty solid backing before they had outside backing making their whiles worth something. I want to cut their faces off and wear them and drink the blood that trickles into my mouth while I talk behind their skin and I want to be able to talk to them about it, but "that's not okay." And still they call themselves artists and photographers in the meantime never having actually known what the mean times really are. I'm no teacher, but I am willing to crash course them.
Stop cock teasing me. Stop front loading me. I cannot handle that kind of nonsense. Take your vacations and enjoy your languages, but do not fucking... ....I'm going to war. There are rules. Aligning with my own. Measures not drastic.
Deterioration. Leaving memories at least as fast as they come. I drive toward new ones as constantly as I can because there really is nowhere else to be and I am okay with that. It's a riot. I feel silly sometimes bending over to pick up the shards of myself and sometimes the entire exercise feels machinated. What I really want to do is tattoo you and have you tattoo me whatever you want. Battling down the brain chiggies. The glitch farm.
I could look back in time, but it won't change the view. The hardest I ever cheated was kissing another woman and being truthful about it. What makes you okay? Violently successful people who don't understand how they were set up to succeed aggravate me. Everything they know are things I should have known when they did, but had to learn later because, like those post coin op machines with the news on their face, I had no coins to insert and no nudge on top of that to pay attention to them and am now taking notice and am now earning quarters to slot in and am now getting up to speed with and am not mad about it. A little sorry, but not mad.
Through the TV eye. A wrecka. I said "hey!" Being bummy with no standards is okay. I'm not going to hurt you if you promise not to hurt me. Dhali Lama and llama beans and trying to be profound in every little thing. It's silly. The outside world bleeds in and the inside world bleeds out and really i just want you to say you're sorry. Even that will be and is meaningless because I won't remember it until I'm steamed and wishing I was not so forgettable.
Power. Something cosmic. It takes a lot out of me to be here and I know it takes a lot out of you to be here with me. Diet on anxiety. I wish I could fill my stomach whenever I wanted to, but I've been grained to the scale of rice to need as little as possible and digest want as a hack hazard that is a crumple zone. I want to be a foodie. I really do. Up chucked bringing to do more with less.
Every time I get something new to me I expect it to break down immediately or somehow fail me because no one gives something valuable to them up for grabs. Except people like me who do not deal in currency. Your word is your word. Your bond is your bond. Everything starts and ends at that initial hand shake. No farther and no less. Things new to me are things old and decrepit to others. Not a revitalization as much as a re-purposing. There is love in that.
Time elapsed, time remaining.
There was this one time I set my cat's whiskers to flame, not understanding that he was made of fur. The whiskers caught and burned down to his coat and we were both surprised at how fast it was able to go. Needless to say, or perhaps, for everyone's sake, we never got that ticky tacky mad again, but if I need to I know some good out of the way spots to bury you if you want to roll those dice. I'm a bad liar and a good forgetter. Push upstairs ;")
I will play asteroids with you for days.
///Daedelus - "My Beau" at night, I think of you and do not call because our wars are different and mounting a head after a battle means something wildly different to me than it does to you, no slight
9/6/11
Money, Cash, Power, 'Spect... it's a Trap
I have been battling. Not the usual demons. Battling the allure of money and respect. The two usually come in a dime pair. And it's nice. I recently realized I was using it's and its in the inverse of how they're supposed to be used because I rememorized a mnemonic device incorrectly. One of those times when you say to yourself "yeah I remember that from elementary school," but your memory is actually completely backwards and remanufactured from parts and pieces of things that actually happened. So I am trying to make an effort to reitify the memorization. Only this time forwards. Comma usage is still playing fast and loose like law dogs in westerns. Anyway, been struggling with the potential for success.
Blowing the costs out of success way out proportion. Thinking things like, well if I am successful how will I be able to live in an apartment that costs more to live in and is slightly smaller than the one I currently occupy? The answer is: the extra money will be what you can apply to owning a runabout and getting out to other places so you'll be spending less time cooped up anyway. But that's not the answer in my head. In my reason, it is the answer. In my head the answer reads more like... well you know. I need not jump it that hard.
I guess with making more money I won't qualify for my hundred dollars of food stamps that has become less a mark of shame and more like "holy shit, it is the eighth of the month and time to buy all the foods I've been dying to buy for the other twenty days out of this month, jesus christ no more peanut butter and jelly and pasta." The truth is I hate eating out. With a passion. Not because it costs more for no reason because for whatever reason tipping motivates service instead of service motivating service (I'm just incorrigibly service oriented) and for some reason getting what you pay for only applies in the food sector. I hate eating out because I hate having people make food for me, as though I am somehow above making my own vittles and prone to being upset if said vittles aren't ready in five minutes or less. I am a creature of patience. Violent, violent patience. I am content to wait very, very, long periods of time to get desired results... ...sometimes quietly, sometimes silently, sometimes very loudly, but at the end of the day I will accept having to fold my hands for a time and wait out results, if not for seeing the fruits of my labor then for the reappearance of opportunities past or yet to come. I did always like the tortoise. Fast hands, slow feet, can't lose.
I practice making fists throughout the day. Throwing fists. I keep an eye on my footwork too. I suppose maybe I am a little obsessive compulsive, but only toward the end of self preservation. It was kind of hilarious, the job application for temporary day to day labor. I believe it asked no less than eleven times if I though fighting was important, or if I thought the ability to win a fight was important, or if I thought the ability to defend one's self in a fight was valuable. I answered the questions honestly and then accidentally scrapped the test (given with an inferior keypad interface, it really was an honest lucky mistake) and then asked the branch manager what was up with all the questions about fighting. He clued me in and told me to answer no, not ever, for all the fighting questions regardless of experience or training or ability. Apparently temp labors brawls are less the exception and more the rule. Regardless, the upside of being conscious of how you place your feet on a moment to moment basis makes you less susceptible to slip and falls when you are focusing on other things.
Just one of those sorts of things I guess having to use your body as the foundation of your livelihood instead of your brain makes you conscious of. I'm kind of inclined to go back to using my body more, but I wouldn't know where to start here. This place kind of frowns on that, hilarious enough as it is probably two cuts above a slum, but I'm not here to argue. One less trap.
Getting back to that though, I'm having some trust issues. Massive ones. Questions bouncing around. "If you were me, with everything you have at your disposal would you say yes to the offer being given you from your mouth to me, me being you?" Questions like that. I don't really know when I'm being used. I damn sure don't know when I'm being abused. The not knowing hurts more than the knowing. The discovery hurts more than both combined. I don't know if people are or aren't, but I wish they would just tell me. That's the upside of selling. It's clean cut. This is what's going to happen, this is why, and this is what it's going to cost you. That is the danger of friends. Nothing is clean cut like that. That's probably why the people I count as friends has thinned so much. That and just being a crazy fuck. Laughing too loud. Neighbors banging on walls. Laughing harder. Sigh. It's good to be live. Better to be alive. I'm working on that.
Money, cash, power, and respect. Everybody wants it. I want to be money so I can get cash and be granted enough power to sway enough respect to buy some land and a home so I will have no need of money, cash, power, or respect and can just be. There's no trap in that.
My stable of friends. Wow. I don't know. That's a lie. I do know. I like to say I don't know so I can imagine it's larger than it is. It's teensy. Oh god, I just tried to rattle it off and got to four, counting family members. Is that even something I can fix? Does it need fixing? To that, I can honestly say I don't know. If I stepped off my spaceship, when I do step off my spaceship, there are essentially four people who can relate to me, but who I can also relate to honestly and semi-openly... on a sit down basis. Everything is open over the waves. You can turn that off. When you're with someone, you can't turn that off. It's there. I am there. I want your eyes. It's very different. Sadly different. World changingly different. I think that's the nice thing that opens me up when I'm talking to you that I don't get to experience otherwise. You can turn me off. Unsubscribe. Break up. All that wonderful shit and I don't have to know and you don't have to know and we're just the same with or without eachother. The beauty of. The fantasia. The crazy fucking nasty wonderful idea sex one night standiness of it all. It's not always that. But sometimes. Whatever, it's fun. Ive nothing to justify. And everything to justify to myself. I assume you realize we are arguing.
We've agreed we'll keep on because the dreams have been to die for. They really have. They've been the sorts of things a body could wish to never wake up from. But, it's a trap, isn't it? Maybe not. Maybe I just have to accept that there are benevolent forces beyond myself. People that don't know me, that don't want to punish me once they do get to know what I am. People that don't want to me punish myself, that are trustworthy beyond a shadow of any doubt and worth more, in fact, than all the trust I could muster if I turned every cell toward the task.
a kid can dream.
///Gorillaz - "On Melancholy Hill" Five hours to get this out. Happy to put my thoughts to good use. Unhappy I couldn't do more. Bed and jobs beckon. can't wait til I'm a housewife with nothing to do but tend after bastards, count my government checks and bide the time until I'm raking in Rowling esque millions when I have nothing to do but write and feeding myself is last on my list of major concerns. So melancholied. So half finished. I wish I was sipping brew on a plastic beach.
Blowing the costs out of success way out proportion. Thinking things like, well if I am successful how will I be able to live in an apartment that costs more to live in and is slightly smaller than the one I currently occupy? The answer is: the extra money will be what you can apply to owning a runabout and getting out to other places so you'll be spending less time cooped up anyway. But that's not the answer in my head. In my reason, it is the answer. In my head the answer reads more like... well you know. I need not jump it that hard.
I guess with making more money I won't qualify for my hundred dollars of food stamps that has become less a mark of shame and more like "holy shit, it is the eighth of the month and time to buy all the foods I've been dying to buy for the other twenty days out of this month, jesus christ no more peanut butter and jelly and pasta." The truth is I hate eating out. With a passion. Not because it costs more for no reason because for whatever reason tipping motivates service instead of service motivating service (I'm just incorrigibly service oriented) and for some reason getting what you pay for only applies in the food sector. I hate eating out because I hate having people make food for me, as though I am somehow above making my own vittles and prone to being upset if said vittles aren't ready in five minutes or less. I am a creature of patience. Violent, violent patience. I am content to wait very, very, long periods of time to get desired results... ...sometimes quietly, sometimes silently, sometimes very loudly, but at the end of the day I will accept having to fold my hands for a time and wait out results, if not for seeing the fruits of my labor then for the reappearance of opportunities past or yet to come. I did always like the tortoise. Fast hands, slow feet, can't lose.
I practice making fists throughout the day. Throwing fists. I keep an eye on my footwork too. I suppose maybe I am a little obsessive compulsive, but only toward the end of self preservation. It was kind of hilarious, the job application for temporary day to day labor. I believe it asked no less than eleven times if I though fighting was important, or if I thought the ability to win a fight was important, or if I thought the ability to defend one's self in a fight was valuable. I answered the questions honestly and then accidentally scrapped the test (given with an inferior keypad interface, it really was an honest lucky mistake) and then asked the branch manager what was up with all the questions about fighting. He clued me in and told me to answer no, not ever, for all the fighting questions regardless of experience or training or ability. Apparently temp labors brawls are less the exception and more the rule. Regardless, the upside of being conscious of how you place your feet on a moment to moment basis makes you less susceptible to slip and falls when you are focusing on other things.
Just one of those sorts of things I guess having to use your body as the foundation of your livelihood instead of your brain makes you conscious of. I'm kind of inclined to go back to using my body more, but I wouldn't know where to start here. This place kind of frowns on that, hilarious enough as it is probably two cuts above a slum, but I'm not here to argue. One less trap.
Getting back to that though, I'm having some trust issues. Massive ones. Questions bouncing around. "If you were me, with everything you have at your disposal would you say yes to the offer being given you from your mouth to me, me being you?" Questions like that. I don't really know when I'm being used. I damn sure don't know when I'm being abused. The not knowing hurts more than the knowing. The discovery hurts more than both combined. I don't know if people are or aren't, but I wish they would just tell me. That's the upside of selling. It's clean cut. This is what's going to happen, this is why, and this is what it's going to cost you. That is the danger of friends. Nothing is clean cut like that. That's probably why the people I count as friends has thinned so much. That and just being a crazy fuck. Laughing too loud. Neighbors banging on walls. Laughing harder. Sigh. It's good to be live. Better to be alive. I'm working on that.
Money, cash, power, and respect. Everybody wants it. I want to be money so I can get cash and be granted enough power to sway enough respect to buy some land and a home so I will have no need of money, cash, power, or respect and can just be. There's no trap in that.
My stable of friends. Wow. I don't know. That's a lie. I do know. I like to say I don't know so I can imagine it's larger than it is. It's teensy. Oh god, I just tried to rattle it off and got to four, counting family members. Is that even something I can fix? Does it need fixing? To that, I can honestly say I don't know. If I stepped off my spaceship, when I do step off my spaceship, there are essentially four people who can relate to me, but who I can also relate to honestly and semi-openly... on a sit down basis. Everything is open over the waves. You can turn that off. When you're with someone, you can't turn that off. It's there. I am there. I want your eyes. It's very different. Sadly different. World changingly different. I think that's the nice thing that opens me up when I'm talking to you that I don't get to experience otherwise. You can turn me off. Unsubscribe. Break up. All that wonderful shit and I don't have to know and you don't have to know and we're just the same with or without eachother. The beauty of. The fantasia. The crazy fucking nasty wonderful idea sex one night standiness of it all. It's not always that. But sometimes. Whatever, it's fun. Ive nothing to justify. And everything to justify to myself. I assume you realize we are arguing.
We've agreed we'll keep on because the dreams have been to die for. They really have. They've been the sorts of things a body could wish to never wake up from. But, it's a trap, isn't it? Maybe not. Maybe I just have to accept that there are benevolent forces beyond myself. People that don't know me, that don't want to punish me once they do get to know what I am. People that don't want to me punish myself, that are trustworthy beyond a shadow of any doubt and worth more, in fact, than all the trust I could muster if I turned every cell toward the task.
a kid can dream.
///Gorillaz - "On Melancholy Hill" Five hours to get this out. Happy to put my thoughts to good use. Unhappy I couldn't do more. Bed and jobs beckon. can't wait til I'm a housewife with nothing to do but tend after bastards, count my government checks and bide the time until I'm raking in Rowling esque millions when I have nothing to do but write and feeding myself is last on my list of major concerns. So melancholied. So half finished. I wish I was sipping brew on a plastic beach.
7/30/10
dear (______):
Dear State Farm Insurance Co:
STFU. I don't care how approachable dimples mcsquints pretends to be. I fucking hate him. Mainly because he is a sad mash up of every possible race on Earth. Also because NO ONE WALKS AROUND RANDOMLY TALKING ABOUT INSURANCE. Worst campaign ever.
Hate you.
STFU. I don't care how approachable dimples mcsquints pretends to be. I fucking hate him. Mainly because he is a sad mash up of every possible race on Earth. Also because NO ONE WALKS AROUND RANDOMLY TALKING ABOUT INSURANCE. Worst campaign ever.
Hate you.
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