This week is going to produce a casualty. I have been barely able to eat, unable at all to sleep. I have nothing for this. It’s killing me. I don’t know how to deal with Not Having Something. Only once before have I had this and then my doctor wanted me hospitalized. There was fever at the end, hallucinatory madness. I forgot that I could feel so intensely. I forgot what hate felt like. I don’t care what you think. You are nothing compared to this, you are dust in the face of this bitter tasting violence. It sits inside of me, driving me to pain and wonder and derision.
I’ve been swearing lately. Not a good sign.
I should be happy my Lover’s arrived, but I don’t know how I feel. I love him, yes, but I don’t know if I want him. Something has been discarded. There’s something hard in this, in my dispassion. I can spit venom. It might be the wall inside of me, growing into steel with claws. Emotion to deaden, to destroy. I’ve been alone for months, twisting with it like on a spike. Driving myself into want, need, but there’s nothing here enough. There’s no affection. I can’t breathe.
I’ve been yelling at people. Since when do I yell at people?
Something raw, something primal. Despise this, tear it, rip it into gobbets of flesh to drink from, to bite, to chew and spit out. Bloody spittle running down the face of whatever enemies decide now is a good time to face me. Wish I had some. My incremental grievance, my rankling self resentment. Spiteful tongued viciousness. It’s in my chest, it’s heavy. Give me time alone, give me scorn. I’ll lick it off a plate like cream. There is no “Fine” this week, there is no “I am well”.
My ferret has gone missing. The little girl across the hall from me in my building was kind enough to both leave my door open and the door to the outside world. If anyone finds a ferret loose near the foot of the drive, please grab him and tell me. My e-mail is firstname.lastname@example.org and I’m afraid he’s out There Somewhere.
I would very much like him back home safe. PLease keep an eye open, he’s harmless and friendly.
It seems that today is some sort of National Turkey Day. Hooray for the Queen! Living in a colony creates some interesting perspectives, like this nagging feeling that I’ve had for my whole life that I was born on the wrong continent. In any case, bank holiday declares this a Robin day. A more difficult Robin day to figure out, as everything is closed. If anyone has any suggestions as to what to do with the boy, they would be greatly appreciated.
Messenger is down, effectively cutting me off from my main form of communication. I’m leaving Yahoo on, though with only two contacts, one of whom has no working computerbox at the moment, it seems a rather vain hope. Sitting here, I’ve got Radiohead softly playing and there are no sounds from outside. It would be lonely if I paid attention to it, but the pale light distracts me, keep me looking at my computer keys. It’s washed out, but this morning for some reason I can see detail slightly more crisp. I’m holding on to it.
I can’t remember what I have booked for this week. I know Wednesday night’s promised to Alistair, but that’s really it. There’s no timeline fluidly unfolding in my brain, though I know that I must have made plans. Gavin arriving has thrown me, my linear thought’s become a little unfocused. At the moment he’s a crumpled lump under my covers that I’m uncertain how I feel about. He asked me a question yesterday, something he picked up from someone he hitch-hiked out with, “A woman is at her sister’s funeral and she sees this incredibly attractive man there. Her eyes are glued to him, but afterwards he gets lost in the mix and she can’t find him. The woman then goes to killer her other sister. Why would she do it?” He didn’t even get to finish the question before I blurted out the incredibly obvious answer, “To see the man again”. Unsurprisingly, the right answer. When he was asked, he fumbled, not knowing why. Apparently it’s a test to catch psychopathy. I think it also catches pragmatics. Pragmatics with daddy fucked me and I liked it desktops. We of us who’ve got stranger levels of indifference through internet use.
My bruises from dancing are visible now. Patches of plum and yellow the size of plum pits. They line the back of my legs like tattoos. That, and I think I’ve confirmed the carpal tunnel/tendonitus or whatever the frag it be. Puffy flesh and shooting pains from the slightest things. Time to switch hands on the mouse.