and it's kind of like, sex sucks. I'm focusing a lot of my analytical energy on the fuck-uppage that is my sexual history, and I don't like how I let myself be treated. And I can't do a goddamn thing about it because forgetting only comes back to haunt you days or months or years or decades later and dealing with it doesn't happen when you don't know how and then there's the whole how it relates to here and now and how it affects those who want to make it better but it's just like
and then i
but only after i
oh and first i
finally i
I'm not cut out for this life.
Whenever I'm in my elevator, which is the sort that you have to pull open the accordian gate and push open the door, I'll hum songs to myself or I'll talk to myself or I'll make my dog too tricks or I'll see how often I can tap the wall between floors because if I stop for just one minute the thoughts catch up with me and I get shivers and it's too much to bear.
Needless to say, I spent all day in bed yesterday.
I woke up this morning with Proud Mary stuck in my head. And hair stuck to my face.
I'm getting really bad about catching the early bus and I'm waking up every morning thinking, "Could I pass a polygraph test if I called in sick today?"
You'll have to pardon me. My uterus is stealing blood from my brain.
one year ago today: nothin. two years ago today: nothin. three years ago today: "think today is a good day to spend to myself."