(no subject)
It was one last hoorah.
She pushed the tray of dishes into the dishwasher and pulled the door down. Mindless. She was hoping that someone would rob the store and shoot Amanda, the annoying girl with the high pitched voice, in the head.
"Are these done?"
"hmm? Oh, yeah. Take them." he pulled the silverware out of her hands. Except they would probably shoot John first. John was ok.
Outside was "woosh, slam, clatter." Inside was "hate, hate." She had renounuced God, and therefore hell, and her bluff it seemed had been called.
After work she drove downtown to use the computer. She typed herself out symbolically, for those who didn't really care, to read and correct.
And that's 3.
(this place is a prison and these people aren't your friends)
Maybe they'd comment, and she could reply and for a moment feel like she had made contact with them. She'd check tomorrow.
That night she dreamt uncomfortably, and the morning brought chaos and anger over the horizon in a flush of red like it usually did. She didn't see it coming; her room had no windows. She awoke with resentment pre-planned because she wasn't who she'd been told she was.
(inhaling thrills through $20 bills and the
tumblers are drained and then flooded again and again)
And she was fucking tired.
There were notes all over the house like Shakespeare in a drunken convulsion, and a few were aimed at her, but most were to her father. There was one from her stepmom on her wall that said not to filter the mail for dad's letters, and one on her dresser from her father that said to check the mail, and to check for apartments in the classifieds. There was one on the computer saying she wasn't to use it, and if she didn't like that, to move out.
That's 2.
(there are guards at the on ramps armed to the teeth and you may case the grounds from the cascades to puget sound, but you are not permitted to leave)
She used it anyway, because she was moving out. Dumb bitch.
She wrote herself into another symbol, and read about someone's weekend at somewhere, and how they couldn't choose a boyfriend. She called Nate, and left a message on his voicemail knowing he wouldn't have time to call back. She turned on the TV.
(i know there's a big world out there like the one i saw on the screen in my living room late last night,it was almost too bright to see)
That night she stayed with some friends and drank.
That's unadmirable. I didn't know you were like that. That's not who you are. She woke up every morning gritting her teeth against the onslaught of percieved versus is.
(and i know that it's not a party if it happens every night pretending there's glamour and candelabra when you're drinking by candlelight)
You're becoming reliant. You're friends are bad. This is not a proper escape.
1.
And someone told her she spelt "excruciating" wrong.
(what does it take to get a drink in this place?)
Witness the breakdown.
(what does it take, how long must i wait?)
Because she realized it was fake and she had bought into it. There was no Nirvana-- there was no stopping point. And now she lived for a good day and the next conversation. And maybe you think that's not right. Maybe you'd like it to be more organized and reworded. I'm sorry. I don't want to live that way.
frustration.
There isn't enough time for prefection, for guilt, for faltering. So she wings it, even when it goes badly. Quality of life? Experience.
And she's tired of being wrong.
So she decided she didn't care. Not about contact, or about anything else that remotely made her human. And she conceded the point. (YES I AM NOT THAT PERSON) And she woke up knowing exactly who she was.
And once again, peace was restored and the universe rebalanced.
(Quotes from The Postal Service)
(and my journey is finished)
She pushed the tray of dishes into the dishwasher and pulled the door down. Mindless. She was hoping that someone would rob the store and shoot Amanda, the annoying girl with the high pitched voice, in the head.
"Are these done?"
"hmm? Oh, yeah. Take them." he pulled the silverware out of her hands. Except they would probably shoot John first. John was ok.
Outside was "woosh, slam, clatter." Inside was "hate, hate." She had renounuced God, and therefore hell, and her bluff it seemed had been called.
After work she drove downtown to use the computer. She typed herself out symbolically, for those who didn't really care, to read and correct.
And that's 3.
(this place is a prison and these people aren't your friends)
Maybe they'd comment, and she could reply and for a moment feel like she had made contact with them. She'd check tomorrow.
That night she dreamt uncomfortably, and the morning brought chaos and anger over the horizon in a flush of red like it usually did. She didn't see it coming; her room had no windows. She awoke with resentment pre-planned because she wasn't who she'd been told she was.
(inhaling thrills through $20 bills and the
tumblers are drained and then flooded again and again)
And she was fucking tired.
There were notes all over the house like Shakespeare in a drunken convulsion, and a few were aimed at her, but most were to her father. There was one from her stepmom on her wall that said not to filter the mail for dad's letters, and one on her dresser from her father that said to check the mail, and to check for apartments in the classifieds. There was one on the computer saying she wasn't to use it, and if she didn't like that, to move out.
That's 2.
(there are guards at the on ramps armed to the teeth and you may case the grounds from the cascades to puget sound, but you are not permitted to leave)
She used it anyway, because she was moving out. Dumb bitch.
She wrote herself into another symbol, and read about someone's weekend at somewhere, and how they couldn't choose a boyfriend. She called Nate, and left a message on his voicemail knowing he wouldn't have time to call back. She turned on the TV.
(i know there's a big world out there like the one i saw on the screen in my living room late last night,it was almost too bright to see)
That night she stayed with some friends and drank.
That's unadmirable. I didn't know you were like that. That's not who you are. She woke up every morning gritting her teeth against the onslaught of percieved versus is.
(and i know that it's not a party if it happens every night pretending there's glamour and candelabra when you're drinking by candlelight)
You're becoming reliant. You're friends are bad. This is not a proper escape.
1.
And someone told her she spelt "excruciating" wrong.
(what does it take to get a drink in this place?)
Witness the breakdown.
(what does it take, how long must i wait?)
Because she realized it was fake and she had bought into it. There was no Nirvana-- there was no stopping point. And now she lived for a good day and the next conversation. And maybe you think that's not right. Maybe you'd like it to be more organized and reworded. I'm sorry. I don't want to live that way.
frustration.
There isn't enough time for prefection, for guilt, for faltering. So she wings it, even when it goes badly. Quality of life? Experience.
And she's tired of being wrong.
So she decided she didn't care. Not about contact, or about anything else that remotely made her human. And she conceded the point. (YES I AM NOT THAT PERSON) And she woke up knowing exactly who she was.
And once again, peace was restored and the universe rebalanced.
(Quotes from The Postal Service)
(and my journey is finished)