add it up

Could I be more excited? Prolly not.

Today was birthday lunch. Omigod. So many good peoples and fun stories and presents (For me? Oh, why thank you!).

I wonder if my heart is going to burst into flames before the huge Saturday ‘Office Party’ blowout occurs. I am so giddy that my brain has completely stopped working.

For those of you that have been keeping tabs…

1. Yes, there will be a water cooler.
2. Yes, the j-roys + mike flintoff will be spinning records all night.
3. Yes, you *do* have to dress for the occasion – professional/ business casual.
4. No, there will be no photocopy machine. It just wasn’t feasible.

If you have any questions about the party, please call me before Saturday.

Today I celebrate my birth.

Happy.

another theory shot to shit

at a 24-hour diner, over milkshakes and fries and platter chatter, i finally told you.

it was not your fault that you were an experiment. that was my doing. i set you up to be shocked. and i set myself up to be shocked when the truths i wanted to tell you didn’t phase you.

on napkins, i drew out the pictures of my demise. they were charts, mainly. cold. shaded in the areas where i was dying. what i drew looked like drafts for a biology text book. it was no wonder that you didn’t understand what anything meant, despite my careful labeling.

you bored the hell out of me. really. you did. there was nothing that you actually wanted to share with me. you just wanted to tell someone something, and i happened to be there.

and that’s the way we were in bed. i wanted to do things to someone’s body. i wanted oil and rubber and sweat and salt and cum in my hair. i didn’t talk to you in bed. i talked at the wall. i gave orders and coaxed you into positions that would thrill anyone. i didn’t care if they thrilled you. i didn’t care if you remembered them in the morning.

ketchup and condiments littered the sticky table.

the distance that you kept didn’t shock me. my death didn’t shock you.

i got up from the table, leaving a mess for someone else to clean up. i’d like to say that i drove home crying... but you were only an experiment (after all).

i have night-mares

when all this is over, you are going to wonder:

"what the fuck was i thinking?"

make me over

I dreamed that a boy I use to date had gone on one of those extreme make-over TV shows. You know, the ones where the participants go through a heap of surgeries, go on diets and workout plans, get stylists for hair/ clothing/ make-up. Yeah the whole works.

In my dream, I was watching on the television as they introduced him and discussed, at length, how his physical appearance had limited him throughout his life. They showed 360 degree pictures of him in his underwear, looking gaunt, slouching, his glasses on, his acne in full effect. It didn’t look like the boy I knew, though I realized as I was watching that this is how the creators of the show wanted him to believe the world sees him.

I will skip the details of the surgeries – but rest assured that he ended up looking like a plastic version of himself. Chin implant. Weight lifting. Pectoral implants. Acne peels. New pants. The layered look. Highlights. A new ‘edgy’ boy with a stronger jaw and a hint of eye liner.

At the end of the show, he got to come out and present himself to his friends and family. There were lots of people waiting to see him. They were all so excited, thinking that he would no longer be a depressed, passive-aggressive, self-victimizing, unmotivated, annoying, deadbeat jerk now that he had been made over.

As I watched people cheer him for him, I looked into the faces in the crowd and realized that none of those people knew him. They were fake. They were extras hired to cheer, swoon, cry, and endorse his ‘new look’.

As they interviewed the plastic version of my ex boyfriend, it became astoundingly clear that the make-over had only accented the things that I had always disliked about him. The credits rolled, and my hatred swelled. Pectoral implants or not, this was not a person I wanted to know… and he may be a person I regretted sharing myself with.

… and then I woke up.

i am always the one who calls

i had taken care of her for days (weeks? months?). feeding, washing, holding, coaxing, listening.

she was wearing my underwear, my tank top, my socks. she was in my bed, with my pillow, my comforter. her eyes were stained red from crying and healing and crying some more. i couldn’t look at her like my lover. she was, at that moment, a child. i just couldn’t take care of every part of her at once.

i could not heal the things that bad men do. could not heal loneliness, the unbalance of chemicals, the hunger, the years of nausea-inducing self hatred. could not make love to her.

she needed me to be the weak one in public. needed a pretty baby to fawn over. to tell her friends and her enemies that she would be taking me home and making me beg.

she needed to turn my most painful strengths into weaknesses.

and when i walked into my own room, to find her still in my bed, living all over me - she used the last strength of her exhausted body to pull me ontop of her.

before things became so tangled... i had wanted this. before i knew her, i had wanted this.

it wasn’t her desperation for love, for a home, for an escape, for care, for a persona that turned my stomach. it was her desperation to turn me, another woman, into something small and pitiful.

it was not enough to merely keep me from being the strong one - she had to turn me into the weak one... and i was not willing to stick around for that.

she still wonders why i don’t call.