(no subject)
Jane, they have turtle mounts now.
Jane, I discovered brain crochet.
Jane, I'm trying to go to shul.
Jane, I am finally dieting.
Jane, I'm applying for a teaching job.
How many things have I listed that I want to tell you. Every day, another one comes up.
I go to the office every day, and from there to class or the lab, and from there home to raid. I see my friends every weekend; it's very rare I stay home. I've advertised in the Metro, finally. More of my writing is on the web. I don't really play music. I don't really write fiction. I game with Josh, I game with Jamie, I spend a lot of time wondering why I game at all.
No one disappoints me anymore. Well, except for Susan, and that's never a surprise. No one says they'll call and then doesn't. No one calls at all. My incoming call list stretches for weeks; my outgoing for days. No one goes out with me and has a bittersweet time. No one hugs me and makes me remember I have a body. No one sends me emails full of apologies and tries to soothe me. No one sends me emails full of turtle links. I am not so guilty for losing my temper and I do not throw my phone. I do not cry and I rarely laugh as hard. Now there is an edge to everything I say, even the people I care about.
There is nothing you did with me that someone else does not do. The times I would have called you, I call my parents, or I walk around in this half-dream state, retelling myself the stories that I will never write down. The things I would have told you I tell the people at work. The places I would have brought you I go to with other people. Or I don't go at all.
Sometimes I think girls want to sleep with me, but they don't make the first move, and I am still so tired of chasing them.
The question is not whether I am better off or not. The question is why it even matters. What is there to be better off for? The life I led with you in it was only just more chaotic than the life I lead now. I had something to look forward to when I scheduled my time, but now it's just a long stretch of things I like doing, but don't love.
I'll admit that I was coming back from teaching today and on the red line. I got off at Downtown Crossing and switched to the Orange Line, just for the chance to see you. But the T was crowded and late and the consequences of my actions finally caused me enough discomfit that I walked over to Park street and took the B line home. I don't sit fighting the urge to write you or call you any more than I fight the urge to eat every day. It simply does not happen, no matter the ache.
You're moving soon. Maybe you'll leave BoA. Maybe you'll stop selling stuff. Maybe I'll forget your work phone number and delete the number out of a phone I don't use anymore.
I just wonder...what's the point?
Jane, I discovered brain crochet.
Jane, I'm trying to go to shul.
Jane, I am finally dieting.
Jane, I'm applying for a teaching job.
How many things have I listed that I want to tell you. Every day, another one comes up.
I go to the office every day, and from there to class or the lab, and from there home to raid. I see my friends every weekend; it's very rare I stay home. I've advertised in the Metro, finally. More of my writing is on the web. I don't really play music. I don't really write fiction. I game with Josh, I game with Jamie, I spend a lot of time wondering why I game at all.
No one disappoints me anymore. Well, except for Susan, and that's never a surprise. No one says they'll call and then doesn't. No one calls at all. My incoming call list stretches for weeks; my outgoing for days. No one goes out with me and has a bittersweet time. No one hugs me and makes me remember I have a body. No one sends me emails full of apologies and tries to soothe me. No one sends me emails full of turtle links. I am not so guilty for losing my temper and I do not throw my phone. I do not cry and I rarely laugh as hard. Now there is an edge to everything I say, even the people I care about.
There is nothing you did with me that someone else does not do. The times I would have called you, I call my parents, or I walk around in this half-dream state, retelling myself the stories that I will never write down. The things I would have told you I tell the people at work. The places I would have brought you I go to with other people. Or I don't go at all.
Sometimes I think girls want to sleep with me, but they don't make the first move, and I am still so tired of chasing them.
The question is not whether I am better off or not. The question is why it even matters. What is there to be better off for? The life I led with you in it was only just more chaotic than the life I lead now. I had something to look forward to when I scheduled my time, but now it's just a long stretch of things I like doing, but don't love.
I'll admit that I was coming back from teaching today and on the red line. I got off at Downtown Crossing and switched to the Orange Line, just for the chance to see you. But the T was crowded and late and the consequences of my actions finally caused me enough discomfit that I walked over to Park street and took the B line home. I don't sit fighting the urge to write you or call you any more than I fight the urge to eat every day. It simply does not happen, no matter the ache.
You're moving soon. Maybe you'll leave BoA. Maybe you'll stop selling stuff. Maybe I'll forget your work phone number and delete the number out of a phone I don't use anymore.
I just wonder...what's the point?