One Hundred Seventy Seven Tries

Melissa, I love you, but you're bringing me down. Me? I'm okay. Just mildy hungover and feeling introspective, not that there is anything in there (me) to find anymore. Trying desperately to take myself off my own mailing list, the one for the kids who believe it still exists (or ever did.) I guess this is just my post (about) traumatic stress from hanging out in the places where boring people collect. I mean all disrespect. But they are pretty, I will give you that. God, I'm so fucking weird, grieving the way I do, over the things I do, but I'm good at being uncomfortable so I keep changing all the time and he's no good at being uncomfortable so he keeps staying exactly the same. And its a slow climb, to sit in your general vicinity, doing nothing. And its hard, when you're a native workaholic hedonist. I look at my poor face in the reflection of my glass desk, waiting for the big fat serpent tears to fall, and I wonder how it is even within the realm of possibility that it is pretty enough to keep you around. Yes, you hate that shit, no, I don't care. I was meant for another time; built for another age. Does everyone feel like this? Clinging to the parapets of my mind, clawing for and clinging to every last meaningful thing in my life, wondering what it is, precisely, that I need to do to keep from. Sorry folks can't finish that last one, for my non-existent therapist's ears only. Because I am not the smartest girl in the world but I am certainly not the dumbest. Anyway, I need to write about nice things, to think about nice things. It is so tiring, the trying to be smart enough to outsmart yourself. Simple people belong with other simple people and you are out of my league. Good thing you're too fucked up to notice. Nice things. Yes, Vancouver Island. Storm season. Vodka tonics. Being in the New Love season and swooning over the accompanying tonkas. Knowing you are new enough to still be interesting. No. Buy/sell. No. Chronic cough. Tired eyes. No no no. Maybe Mother told you true. Yes. Maybe she's right and maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm wrong and just maybe she's right. Yes. Yes. I am filthy but fine. Yes. You're still the one pool where I'd happily drown.

Melissa, I love you, but you're freaking me out.