Devil's Night

blonde hair + a weekend off work + Kool-Aid =

_________

....................before..........................................during......................................
......................................................(also known as gay)

_............. .............

...after!................ .........after, dry, con puppy.......

...at the distillery with Katelin!

...Eric?

I find it very curious that someone at the New York State Office of Mental Health a) was actually concerned enough about my "fuck fuck fuck" post to leave a comment about it, and b) went through the trouble of making it anonymous. Why do you want to know, oh visitor from Long Island City? And why, why anonymous?

October 15th

Everything felt so far removed. It was as if.....if I were to reach out for it, I wouldn't be able to touch it, but.....I'm not even trying to reach.

The passage of time, so strange, so strange.

you say it's your birthday...

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

I hate the way you smell and the shape of your face. I hate the way your mouth looks when it's open, I hate the color of your skin. I hate your feet, I hate the way you move, I hate the faces you make. I hate how fucked up you are, I hate all the attention you get. I hate your voice, when you drop it to softly say, "I know," I hate the way you lay in bed. I hate your ribcage. I hate your t-shirts and your brown shoes and your stupid skater shoes. I hate that your voice is good and you know it. Fuck fuck FUCK! I hate every single memory of you.

get out of my life, don't come back...............you're so respectable

Sylvia said, "What a thrill."

This afternoon, washing dishes, running soapy silverware and plastic plates under steamy hot water. I scrubbed a steak knife too hard and it slipped, the blade catching my index finger and running hard across it. Not enough to make it bleed, but enough to make me yelp out loud. "Ow!" But I'd said it on automatic, out of surprise, not pain, because as soon as the word was out of my mouth I realized it hadn't hurt at all. It felt good. It felt so good.

trope dope

Tonight I heard Zoe's (I think) voice for the first time.

I worry that if I met her in real life, I would not like her very much.

Her coworkers think Bend (Oregon) is so cool. I once went to Ecuador with a boy named Ryan who would agree with them. Zoe doesn't.

Then I looked at some of her pictures, but after the close-up one of her boyfriend I stopped, because it made me miss kissing someone because you like them, and then I didn't want to see any more.

Dear Zoe,
I'm like boys in bands: I still miss you.
Love,
Angela.

Sometimes I Feel Like the Boy from "Perfume."

Last night I was finally introduced to The Cabin, home of Uncle Wally/Ian, House, and George's workspace/location of parties when Wally's out of town. It was lovelier than I had imagined. One entire wall is made of glass, facing the lake, borderline-magical in the early morning. It sits one cove over from where Johnny Cash used to reside. Terribly Nashville, yeah?

A few of the boys' friends joined us for poker and beer.
Of course, the point is that one of them reminded me of you.
Maybe it was all that thick, black coffee, but I think your eyes were actually in his head.
(Like that man on the 17 that sat like you, and I was a bit surprised when I looked up and did not find your head attached to the neck.)
He acted around me the same way you did when we first met; the way he looked at me, the way he talked, the stories he told, the things he laughed at.
It was bizarre.
I was afraid he would touch me.
Because I was afraid of what would happen.
What it would feel like, I guess.

Crystal doesn't think the T'Oaks stairwell has a smell, but it does. Every time I walk up or down, it makes me think of sitting in the corner of the first landing with my pink book, and of the shape of your face in my hands.

Hmm.

It seems increasingly unlikely that I will ever get to kiss you again.

that's kinda funny, 'cause I was gonna do this...

GanjaStack: twenty. psychology major. my weekend lover. real. lies to himself a lot. intuitive. native american (but not blackfoot). makes high-pitched noises when kissed. wears girls jeans. doesn't have a job. buys three-for-one cigarettes. smells like home.

(Or something like that.)

_________________________

Thursday, September 18, 2008

[enter GanjaStack]

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Friday, September 19, 2008

When someone likes you, they contact you.

This occured to me while walking to the store this afternoon.

Not that I didn't already know this, but I really realized it just today. "It hit you," they say.

"When we don't know the reasons why someone no longer loves us, we find them."

Along these lines, when you know someone doesn't care much, but don't want to believe it, we give them all sorts of excuses for why they didn't call or stop by. I know it looks like he doesn't like me, but if you think about it.... So today it truly struck me what honest bullshit that is. Why do we do this to ourselves? We psych ourselves out and most likely cause ourselves more trouble in the end by stringing out this wishful thinking.

If someone wants to talk to you and be around you, they will get in contact with you.

And if they don't?

They won't.

No "but"s. No situational circumstances. The end.

_________________________

Saturday, September 20, 2008

GanjaStack and I spend all day together. While I take a shower, he does my dishes and takes out my trash, unasked. We search Clifton on foot for his car. When we find it, we drive across the bridge into Kentucky, to his grandma's house (which he consistently spells G-R-A-M-M-A). While GanjaStack does chores outside, I learn about Howard Hughes in the bathroom, then lay on the couch and pretend I'm Mort Rainey from "Secret Window." He steals gas from his grandma's husband and we stop at three fast food stations before he decides what he wants to eat.

Back to his house, fill our veins with french-fry grease. "Sweeney Todd," Sailor Jerry's, a laughing pledge to marry in 50...40...no, 20 years, so we won't have to die alone.

It's 5AM, we can't stand it any longer...

_________________________

Sunday, September 21, 2008

[[We have fast sex. You moan frantically, come hard.]]

Sometimes you sound as though you're auditioning for the part of Adam Rose, and when you smile really big you look like Vatica Chris, both of which bother me, but for different reasons. In the car on the way to Mikey's, I ask if you know who the latter is, and am slightly relieved when you don't. Without asking, I know you know the former, because you've told me more than once that you hate him. (I wonder if I did not beat Adam to GanjaStack's ex-girlfriend, after all.) He telephoned me from Germany a few days later, and I asked him about you. As it turns out, he hasn't got a clue who you are, so you shouldn't waste much energy on hating him.

_________________________

Monday, September 22, 2008

We're tangled up in the pre-dawn dark, James snoring slightly next to us.

"Goodnight, GanjaStack," I whisper.

"'Night, sweetie," he says.

[[You say the words "happy" and "relief," then call me "sweetie" and kiss me goodnight.]]

_________________________

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

[exit GanjaStack]

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(OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT!!!