(no subject)
i wanted to write on paper, but it is an impossibility to find anything (pencil, pen, marker) in this labrinth of mess and clothing that no longer fits. balled up socks, plastic string cheese wrappers, empty glasses with clumps in the bottom, boxes and boxes and more boxes, a pathway on the floor. my room.
i need the following:
to figure it all out
to figure something out
get on the proper bus tomorrow
pay the bills
fight tooth and nail with upmc, various people in my life
appointments: a dentist
?psychiatric help?
take birth control regularly again, because i don't trust myself in the slightest
save more cash, save it all
clean and detox this mess
stop speaking, find purpose
(write cover letters! apply! stop the disdain that permeates absolutely everything - my wrists thundering at times, my face contorted)
lose 10 pounds before the end of december.
(ingredients for soup).
wrap myself in layers, buy proper socks
laundry.
reply to forms of communication that are not texts and facebook posts in a more timely fashion;
stop replying, make an excuse, (for one)
and for another, forget. forget. forget.
formulate a plan.
formulate a life.
take control.
kiss me in the shadow of a doubt.
(but not you, or you, or you, or anyone existing)
i cannot be with you because i feel disenfranchised, cheated. your privilege and ignorance disgusts me. you disgust me. your job and your smugness and the complete lack of self-awareness
everywhere, in the street
in the car
in the goddamn chinese restaurant
makes me want to excuse myself, walk past the dishes of crackers laid out next to the kitchen, and puke and puke and puke. (you are a blip on my radar, you are so utterly devoid of meaning to me. bouncing off of my skin like a toy rubber ball, representing all the faceless faces of my past.)
(but there are two, only two, now, at age 26, who i am happy to play the role of a child's toy for. a yo-yo, no less. or maybe only one, but how can i kid myself? what is this a result of, anyhow?)
i return here and i cry because, well, what have i to offer the world - i'm neither an artist nor a suit. i'm neither young nor old. i'm neither intelligent nor stupid. don't touch me, don't ever touch me. and even if you do, and i permit you, don't for any moment think i'm really there. because i'm not, i'm just a mess of flesh and synapses and more than likely wishing i was with someone else.
the question, 'what do you do', sends me into fits. i smirk, i convulse inside. i'm a waitress, your* waitress. i serve every single one of you, every single day, and neither group fits into the middle part of the venn diagram where i sit in solidarity.
thursday it was "the artist":
"what do you do when you're not working?"
"i live"
"what do you mean? like, don't you do something creative? make art? write? music?"
"no, i just live"
(actually, i lied, to save embarrassment, but then quickly dismissed myself to another task before i could be asked anything more detailed. scurry away, little mouse.)
saturday it was "the suit":
"what do you do?"
"i live"
"i mean, what is your job?"
"living"
(drunk, alone, annoyed. this did happen. i could be barely breathing and it wouldn't matter to you.)
oh hard knock life. i can't deny that i am changing, in some way, or that this isn't the path i've set up for myself, my brain in an endless painful loop.
grow up, grow strong.
something: i revel in the sound of rain, these days.
i need the following:
to figure it all out
to figure something out
get on the proper bus tomorrow
pay the bills
fight tooth and nail with upmc, various people in my life
appointments: a dentist
?psychiatric help?
take birth control regularly again, because i don't trust myself in the slightest
save more cash, save it all
clean and detox this mess
stop speaking, find purpose
(write cover letters! apply! stop the disdain that permeates absolutely everything - my wrists thundering at times, my face contorted)
lose 10 pounds before the end of december.
(ingredients for soup).
wrap myself in layers, buy proper socks
laundry.
reply to forms of communication that are not texts and facebook posts in a more timely fashion;
stop replying, make an excuse, (for one)
and for another, forget. forget. forget.
formulate a plan.
formulate a life.
take control.
kiss me in the shadow of a doubt.
(but not you, or you, or you, or anyone existing)
i cannot be with you because i feel disenfranchised, cheated. your privilege and ignorance disgusts me. you disgust me. your job and your smugness and the complete lack of self-awareness
everywhere, in the street
in the car
in the goddamn chinese restaurant
makes me want to excuse myself, walk past the dishes of crackers laid out next to the kitchen, and puke and puke and puke. (you are a blip on my radar, you are so utterly devoid of meaning to me. bouncing off of my skin like a toy rubber ball, representing all the faceless faces of my past.)
(but there are two, only two, now, at age 26, who i am happy to play the role of a child's toy for. a yo-yo, no less. or maybe only one, but how can i kid myself? what is this a result of, anyhow?)
i return here and i cry because, well, what have i to offer the world - i'm neither an artist nor a suit. i'm neither young nor old. i'm neither intelligent nor stupid. don't touch me, don't ever touch me. and even if you do, and i permit you, don't for any moment think i'm really there. because i'm not, i'm just a mess of flesh and synapses and more than likely wishing i was with someone else.
the question, 'what do you do', sends me into fits. i smirk, i convulse inside. i'm a waitress, your* waitress. i serve every single one of you, every single day, and neither group fits into the middle part of the venn diagram where i sit in solidarity.
thursday it was "the artist":
"what do you do when you're not working?"
"i live"
"what do you mean? like, don't you do something creative? make art? write? music?"
"no, i just live"
(actually, i lied, to save embarrassment, but then quickly dismissed myself to another task before i could be asked anything more detailed. scurry away, little mouse.)
saturday it was "the suit":
"what do you do?"
"i live"
"i mean, what is your job?"
"living"
(drunk, alone, annoyed. this did happen. i could be barely breathing and it wouldn't matter to you.)
oh hard knock life. i can't deny that i am changing, in some way, or that this isn't the path i've set up for myself, my brain in an endless painful loop.
grow up, grow strong.
something: i revel in the sound of rain, these days.