Disappointment

Okay. So, I'm such an idiot and not even a poetic one... You would think that I'd be able to learn from mistakes once I've made them a few hundred times! I guess not...

I just know that I've disappointed them now the same way I've disappointed everyone. And maybe that's what I wanted to do (Je le croix).

Damn.

Speaking of which, I have to make an appointment for my language exam. Maybe I can do that on Wednesday. My hand hurts from writing even a little bit, and i think it's because I'm pressing hard because this pen is running out... On Metro North on my way to the "Federalist Era!"

Self-Crafting on Chambord

Okay. SO here I am again. And barely removed (but SO removed) from what I was reading a few years ago (with the delicate addition of Chambord). But the stripes are bolder but hidden. I'm in a bigger room, but still alone. Free? Less so? More responsible... In a good way-- one that's wiser.

But then why am I still acting like a fuck-up and photographing it to boot!?! (Because I have no spectators.).

It's all for posterity. Like "Madame fuck-face" tossed into jail during the Reign of Terror... Why can't I remember her name right now? Anyway, my hand hurts. Too much to write right now...

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Adding drugs to the mix.

Writing high is much harder that writing just drunk or depressed. Things don't seem to flow as well. Everything is stuck and creaky. Let me persist-- what is wrong with me? What am I pursuing here? Self-crafting. I think it's ALL about self-crafting.

Do you know what I mean? That's what B took from me... My ability to DECIDE who I am. That's what was so weird with those old journal entries .

And for once, I'm trusting the pen again.

I miss you.

Cutting Flowers Bruises

The pink peonies I have here are, I think, the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen. It's been a strange day today-- one that I'm ending with cigarettes, wine, my black slip that I feel fat in and a very familiar sting on my thigh...

A weird day that began with a lack of sleep and then a rainy walk to physical therapy. Then, Rochester jumped on my back and left his claw-mark in a three punctured wound. God, how it hurt. But, I became strangely possessed to lengthen them... drawing red stripes out and around my torso... as impossible as that may seem.

Then, to my voice lesson, met up with B at "Rice Bowl" and came back here to laze around hardly doing a shred of the work that's oppressively weighing on my chest.

Then B left to go out to drinks with friends.

I feel like a different person when I'm with him-- both a lighter and heavier person at the same time. Both lovable and detestable.

Anyway, part of me is resentful that he'll never invite me out to do things with his friend,s but I still invite him to do things with mine.

After he left (and an episode of "Law & Order") I got Secretary on PPV. It both impressed me because it avoided cliches and it annoyed me with its rampant cliches.

Afterwards, I felt nothing but crestfallen and an urge to cut that I could not bite back. It's not fair that people have such a problem with my cutting! I mean... it really doesn't hurt me or anyone else for that matter, and I just love it aesthetically and feel so beautiful and satisfied when I can see the marks there.

I couldn't resist one simple, beautiful line on my thigh, although I wish it were on my calf or arm.

Afterwards, I wet the wound and smeared the blood around so it looked bruised and bigger... although I wouldn't dare do anything more permanent or noticeable.

It's because I'm always being fucking inspected! So... I've resolved to drink a bottle or two of wine to numb this frustration. Is that really better, though? It's just not visible for people to pick up on tomorrow.

Arghh!!!

I want to be painted by Heathcliff... especially around the eyes. And I want to stop thinking about my thesis, finding a job and who the fuck I am.

Just to be bruised and loved.

I don't care if people think it's fucked up. I know where the line is in my head and I"m not afraid that I'll cross it...

Waiting for VJ

I've been lugging this thing around for ages without the urge to write. But now, sitting in Starbucks with a toasty Vanilla Latte and waiting for VJ, I need to ward off sleep.

I feel too exposed sitting here. My fingers are heavy and there are no corners. To make things worse, the kitschy zodiac chess-board table is making me dizzy. And my fucking ankle hurts.

VJ and I are supposed to go to bartending class which starts today. And I am supposed to be reading about the American Federalists (among other things) (But God, my fucking ankle hurts!)

Physical Therapy plus going to the gym today has more than drained me. I feel like if someone spoke to me right now, I would more than love to respond in an overly cranky manner.

I think I wrote in this Starbucks on a different day too-- the one on 102nd and Broadway.

I still feel weird about what happened on Saturday night and how to act if I bump into Druggie or his brother. I hope they're not dangerous or anything weird like that... Today I had some terrible imagining of being raped on the roof.

Why am I so fucking crazy?

And my Michelle Dessler/ Todd Manning dream... How can I miss a character so much when he's just a fictional character? What is going on with me?

Maybe I need to retire with Wuthering Heights. I'm up to the part when Catherine tells Nelly that she'll marry Linton and Heathcliff overhears and storms away from the estate...

Until later...