Tonight so balmy and the moon so big and full and round and bright.
Waiting for the bus a woman approached us.
She said she had been watching us; that we were so obviously in love
and it reminded her of her dead husband.

We are affectionate and the crush of our lips is amazing.
When the Connoisseur bends his tall dark head to mine,
I feel present, savoring the slightest intimate contact.

In love though?

There was a time as well when Hugo and I
about 3 years ago were having a platonic drink,
and a drunken man leans over to tell us that
he thought it was beautiful to see
young people like us in love.

We both had other partners.
We were not together at the time.
I was not in love.

(this is Sunday)
Mini Fear and Loathing Weekend

26 is not too old for gnarly benders, I think.
It’s about time to clean the pipes –
can’t do it quite properly without the pscilocybin.
But I was pretty well equipped for some oblivion.

This weekend, I had a lot of drugs in my body.
My target were the memory cells which store the bad memories.
I think I may have been a little effective.

Came home from a night out dancing – Big Heart City for Sophie’s.
I don’t even have the energy to tell that story.

That was Friday, and it began a weekend of excess.

Today I am a walking zombie. Today is Sunday.
Yesterday was Saturday.

Here’s what I remember about yesterday:

7 or so boxes of qty 24 charger Nitrous or whip-its
2 hits of ferrari ecstacy split 4 ways
cocaine on a CD
endless bowls of chronic out of a 2 ft. glass bong
pretzels
Hefeweizen
Sony Playstation

I believe it was a beautiful day outside.
I know because I could see it outside my window.
Inside though, I had a need to reclaim my space, to explode and then re-order.
None of these so-called “horoscopes” seems to be in synch with what my life
has become.

Let me start over.
The neat little bento boxes are exploding, cat and kitty and all.
Things are getting messy in my head, my control, my order, the system is breaking down.
In the alternate universe though, keys are being slipped into locks,
things are falling into place.
On the other side, my doppelganger is making a nest, a new home for me.

And in this last year, esp. after the botched cohabitation with Hugo and that whole majestic failure,
I have been in indecision’s grip so many times.
It’s nearly squeezed the life out of me.
I smeared my self with self loathing and chickenshit.
Soothed and hypnotized myself by eroticizing, even the pain.
Or the expectation of pain – sitting here, I am tensed for the blow which I know I will deserve,
for the pain I will only drink and bathe in, for the tears which will baptize me again.
And hardened my heart, cut myself into pieces,
because the whole of me was paralyzed by inaction.

I’ve become so soft. Too soft.
Lost my edge, given up too much of my blood.
I’ve been passive aggressive.
More passive, because I fear the effect
the strength of my aggression might cause.

I’ve spent most of Saturday, and all of Sunday,
in my own company, with assorted housemates.
Getting stupid, dancing on ecstasy in my living room.
There are other things I could have done.
But I think I made the right decision.


Now it is 2.27 p.m. on Sunday.
I’m waiting for yesterday’s memories and Friday’s memories,
and Thursday’s memories, to arrive and/or find solid form in my brain again.

But now I’m going to:

a) *um
b) nap
c) clean my room
d) do some laundry
e) eat some mac and cheese and artichokes
f) finish writing
g) play videogames, watch tv, catch the sunset
h) lay out my clothes and stuff for the workweek
i) stone.cold.chill

4.52 p.m. on Sunday

Items a and b (see above) complete. I haven’t made it through the rest of the list.
Just spoke with Hugo. He called me from the road.
He’s waiting for an invitation to see me, asking after my schedule.
He sounds sad, tentative. I missed him esp. last night while I was rolling on ecstasy.
Filled with love but not lust for him. But today I am empty inside.

- It would be nice to see you sometime soon. he says.
- I know. I reply.
- Just let me know when you want to see me, and I’ll come over. he says.
- I will. Let you know. I say.

There is a silence. We do not know what to say.

- I love you. he says. I missed you this weekend.
- I love you too. I say.

I love him, it’s true. His face, his blue eyes, his solid 200 lbs. form.
He is kind, helpful to friends, family and strangers.
Tries to be fair. Knows how to charm, sell, think critically, turn the money he makes into more money.
Carries heavy stuff for me. Takes my backpack from me whenever we’re walking.
He’s grown into a fine man.
Responsible, dependable, more thoughtful and sweet now than he was when we lived together.
Looks good in wifebeaters and suits, loves sports, loves taking me to sporting events.
Brilliant scientist. Trustworthy and respectable businessman.
Insane standardized test taker. Math and Science teacher to junior high kids.
Solid American values. Teasing, boyish and affectionate with me.
Loves to see me happy.
Tries to be patient and reasonable when I am the most irrational, caustic and evil bitch on the planet.
Spots me flow when I’m short until the next paycheque.
Willing to be the man in the relationship.
Willing to take responsibility.
FOR ME! Not many men out there want to take on the responsibility of loving a girl like me.

I get struck sometimes, when I see that he can hurt.
Oftentimes, I see him hurting but I ignore it.
I learned that trick from him, when we lived together.
To notice the pain but ignore it. Not wanting to “get involved” or “deal with” feelings.
I hardened my heart. I cannot be soft. Being soft is how I got to this point.
Since I moved out, I think, he’s become the nice guy and I’ve become the unfeeling prick.

5.50 p.m.

I’m writing in between futile organizational attempts in my room.
I don’t think I’m going to make it out of the house today. And for this I feel no guilt.

I love men. I love men.
The smell of clean manly hair, the feeling of a scratchy night’s growth of stubble, the freshly smooth shaven cheeks, nice asses and luscious kisses.
I love the sound of a man’s voice in my ear.
I love reverse spoons where I’m holding the boy, my leg thrown over his hip. I love naked cuddle.
I love talking dirty. I love to resist and succumb.
I love sometimes not talking at all.
I love walking from a movie or a play or a show hand in hand when he might suddenly sweep me up and pin me to a wall for a slick soft wet kiss.

I love to make a boy shiver and want.
I want to sit next to him and know how much he wants to kiss and touch me.
I want him to know I want to touch him too.
Sometimes, the delay of gratification is more thrilling to me than actual sex.

I love to watch a boy sink his teeth into a crunchy apple. The Connoisseur says that it’s some kind of Eve complex.


6.17 p.m.

Still not much progress on the cleaning. I must have really lost something yesterday with all that nitrous.
And now we’re out of weed. So our hook up is on the way in an hour with a nice little delivery.

Spoke with my mother today and told her about the marriage epidemic.

- Deep down you want the same thing. You know you do. You pretend to be the Ice Queen, but you’re looking for the same thing. she says.

I let her feel smug with her motherly knowingness. I bit my tongue. Didn’t want to tell her that her marriage to my father is the main reason I am terrified of ever being married.

- Say hi to your dad. she says.

I groan.

- Hi baby! How are you? my dad yells into the phone.

I answer according to the script.

- So your cousin is getting married! How about you? I’m getting old and I need my grandkids! he yells.
- Papa, you have a 7 year old kid. Why do you need another baby around? my reply.
- Yeah but I want my grandkids! he is teasing me but annoying me too.
- Don’t hold your breath, Dad, I say, I have 4 other sisters who will breed and marry off for you.

Sigh.

(incoherent on Saturday)

(this is Friday)

the latest weed I have gives a tremendous body high.
unleashes the freak.

tiger stripes disappear during the day.
the window open to warm afternoon breeze.
I’m lightheaded and hypersensitive.

Pushing and Pulling.
Resisting and Yielding.
Taking and Riding.

It’s quiet except for faroff outside noises, chirping of birds,
and sounds of breathing, rustling of the bedsheets, contact of skin.

We have all day. And so we take our time.

The evening of Sophie’s at Big Heart City is anticlimactic.
For everyone involved.

Post club hook-ups with thugs in an Escalade may seem thrilling in rap videos.
But in real time, they yield no satisfaction.

(this is thursday)

I've been having lunch with a new companion Reader No. 6.
It's amazing that it's all so instantaneous -- sexual sparks giving in to the "can't wait to fuck you" function.
Back in the day I made a boy wait a year.
Back in the day I had to "know" a boy to get the right vibe.
Now it's all animal reaction - the pheromones, the body contact
It's easy to get caught up in the flirtation.
Easy to forget that it's the person, not just the body, that I want to inhabit.

(this is wednesday)
I'm drunk and I'm stoned.
My head is pounding.
There is a smorgasbord of painkilling medication available.

I'm sorry I reacted the way I did.
I lost my composure, lost my cool.
Faltered in my confidence and why?

I thought you were worth more than the pretense,
the scripted calculating version of myself.
I'm trying to laugh about it, forget it.

I think I'm breaking my own heart.
At this point I may have gone too far.

Do you want to know what's been going on, behind the scenes?

That I met my first :reader: on Feb. 2.
And since, I have met 5 more.

There are things I allude to, things I'm living out;
living out, and leaving out.

They're affecting me.

I've lost sight of this "project" --
at first, and at second, I have only wanted to see
how far I could push this, how far I could go, without going too far.
Secretly hoping that I'd change so much that I would outgrow this skin, this coccoon.

And perhaps I have.
But the delay, in tearing it apart, biting off a little at a time.

The first time, I was exhilirated and excited.
The second time, I was shaking, seeking to submit. The Master.
The third time, I kept the freak on a leash and had a moment of pure agape in each other's arms.
The fourth time, I found the Connoisseur.
The fifth time, I was serious and composed.
I did not feel that he was that attracted to me sexually, more intrigued, as a friend and a real person.
The sixth time, I ran away in tears – by this time, my guard had come down.
And I was confronted by a wall as well defended as my own.

For the dopamine junkie to manifest in real-time,
in the daylight, from behind the screen, I must put myself at risk.
She's over here, you see.
But it would be me, just me, standing in front of you.
Not a fantasy. Not a nymphomaniac. Not as jaded as I am in text.
Just me.

Young, vulnerable, with a lot of bravado which
sometimes hardens into courage, proud, defensive,
secretly hopeful.

That's at the deepest layer.
Where I'm the most lonely.

All the other personas I inhabit are as changeable as a pair of shoes.

I write this to remind myself, yes I am still a real girl.

But the melancholy is keening through my veins tonight.
No one I really want to talk to, not even amongst the
network of amazing people in my life.

Because no one knows the whole story.
Each just gets a palatable version, appropriately sugar coated.

I won't bother with any self-deprecation.
Or self-pity.

Some voice inside me demands that I be ruthless.
Probably the girl inside who is disgusted by
the obstinacy of hope.

Hope for what?
Nothing special.
To be held and understood.
The 1001 expressions of human emotion through sex.
To have my mind sing alive at the love of life.

Not even forever. Just a little while.
I'm just a packet trying to get to the right
destination. Being stripped of all my headers.
I don't believe in true love anymore.

My tummy hurts. My head is throbbing painfully.
I just want to sleep. I'll go to bed early tonight.