With this ring I wed thee

He's free. And emotionally exhausted. And lazy. Distant. Preoccupied. And all the other adjectives that come with breaking someone's heart.

He wasn't wearing the gold band this weekend. Why then tonight? I thought about asking but it didn't seem like my business, although he's the one that pushed his business on me.

I hope he made the right decision... I'm unrealistically pessimistic about marriage and wanted him to get a second opinion.

I'm not sure why he decided this and why I'm part of it. I don't want either. I think it's because he got married to young. I think it's because he saw me as the person he wants to be. And I indulged. But he told me he wasn't happy.

Although I will lead and love the life of a traveler, impulsive and indulgent, should I not have told him what sometimes lurks underneath. Have I sub-consciously lied?

He has dismantled a home and made it merely an empty house, where once a woman slept, but now only an insecure, bewildered girl.




"I just realized how empty this place will be without all my stuff... Kinda sad. Shit, even the bed is mine... But I'll leave that I think."

I know he loves her. You have to love family and once your married that's family. He'll leave the bed.

He won't kiss me.

I won't kiss him.
I want something different out of this, this strangely unique creature that made the first move when I wasn't thinking about any move at all. It wasn't lechery, but something more profound and refined. I can't help but love his poetry.
"When you walked me out the light ran across your face, just across your eyes. It was startingly complimentary."

We were driving and my ex-boyfriend got brought up. For some reason, I thought about the first time we hung out alone.
I drove him home after a night of severe inebriation and he changed my radio presets so every station number was in order from lowest to highest. It was merely an innocent thought of how I came to date him.
And then I thought about how the day after I texted him explaining just how much I hated it because I kept pushing the wrong buttons. I texted him. I made the first move. I always do and I'm always bitter about it.
I brought it up that I had done so and he said he would have, but I was and am untrusting. If I meant anything... He was too slow.

I almost told this story. I almost gave the secret away, but then I realized he would then be obligated. And I know when he reads this and it finally happens I'll regret telling him 'I'm writing about you...,' because this will only be another way I beguiled the situation. There's really no hope now; I have acted first.

I should focus on me and love, or some sadistic aloof version, will find me when I'm not prepared, entangled in hectic organization, in overpowering ambition, in constant inconstance. Isn't that what they say? After dating many a gentlemen, every hand gets closer to what I want. He made it close, so very close, but I'm frightened that my brashness has done it in.

I will kiss him and be bitter. Or he will kiss me and the latter remains.

I was reading Hunter in this dilapidated park I used to live by. It's right next to this concrete V-shaped sewer and I figured if I got bored sitting at the park, I could go sit on the sloped walls of the sewer and remember a time when decisions were made for me. A time when it was easy. I was a product of parental control and I didn't care much about anything except riding bikes and beating boys.

I had stopped reading to smoke a cigarette and swing. The metal chain was rusted and made this terrible scratching, of a factory machine that needed to be oiled. The noise triggered my inspiration and made me notice the black man, across the street, as still sitting outside under the shade of a tree. I wondered if he thought I was crazy. I had been at the park for a couple hours now and had switched reading spots five times, each time picking up my purse filled with pens and books and notes scribbled on napkins and receipt paper, then dropping it and sitting down a couple paces off to continue reading. I was in a black tennis skirt, the kind with shorts underneath, but I wasn't sure that he could tell and if not, he was probably a little shaken by my careless exposing of myself.

This made me smile, because I felt we had some connection. We were the only two sitting outside in the neighborhood, relaxing in this Missouri detriment of my personality, officially called Cape Girardeau. I wondered again what he was thinking and thought about walking across the street to strike up a conversation, but decided some things are better left undiscovered.

He didn't look too old, but he was black and his hair was still dark, so I couldn't be for sure. His clothes made it seem otherwise though; his chicken legs, covered in jeans, were crossed so that the bottoms rose up exposing high, white socks and loafers. He had on a plaid button-down shirt with suspenders, but I still couldn't be sure of his age.

I was being harassed by an ex, so close-minded and judgemental that I'm completely dumbfounded that I spent a year and three months under his insecure wing. I suppose I was playing pretend. He was, well his family was wealthy and I enjoyed snobbing with those prudes for a while. They rejected box wine, only wetting their palate with vintage European wine and over-priced duck.

Like I said, I was reading Hunter, so maybe his anarchist spirit influenced me to rage against that family. They were pretty nice people, in all honesty, but I was on the inside.

I was reading "The Rum Diary" and had just finished the first part of the fifth chapter, in which he realizes he doesn't necessarily like talking in big words, ambiguous words, such as "love" and "happy," most probably because of their misuse, especially in the career field we share. I talk about these big words, but always negatively, as in they don't last and basically they aren't real. I'd rather find shelter under words that I can fully explain. so then I'm never proven wrong.

My mom and I got into an argument today because I don't believe in the same values/vices/morals she does. She said I've always written dark things, and although I'm not quite sure what she meant by that, I do know I find those "dark" things beautiful and their mystery is alluring.

God appears, and God is light
To those poor souls who dwell in night,
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.
          -William Blake, an excerpt from Auguries of Innocence

She can explain these big words, or so she thinks, or so she pretends and tricks herself, through religion, through God. She told me to research, but that is so completely ludicrous because, unfortunately for her and the millions of other believers out there, faith is defined as the confident belief or trust, without any evidence or proof, in a truth or the trustworthiness if a person,idea or thing; "without any evidence or proof" being the key words there.

I think it'd be much more commendable for the religious to stop pretending they can prove God, and instead say something like: "Yes, science is an amazing thing, that is certainly making it harder for people to believe in a divine creator, but me personally, I believe all this beauty cannot be an accident, a gigantic speeding meteor or an explosion caused by infinite density. Period. (Yes, I just used the word "period.") That would make them seem less like lunatics. "Phonies."

The love for Manchester, Tennessee: Waiting in line for heaven and more hell

I drove for five hours, with only the best company-cigarettes and good music, and then the night set in and I was like a giddy little girl falling in love for the first time. There's nothing better than this, driving alone, dancing to every song, following strangers to a destination where crazy dreams like mine become reality, waiting for the new world I've found to come smack me in the face. And Bonnaroo did just that.


    As I sit in this horrendous line and the semi's and lost souls speed by, I feel like I'm on the right path; the path of colorful lights and huge stages swarmed by neo-hippies and fakers all filling up on grass and mushrooms. Sounds tempting and so I'm here...
   They're driving home to see their wives and children and be comfortable, just comfortable. They're driving all night to try and make it to the next destination, where they'll pick up another load and go off again, not to fall in love with the black top, but to cuss and spit at another night on the road, where they'll huff rush, eat gas station subs smothered in mayonaise and get blown by another waste of life. It's terrible really, that all our stereotypes and traditions have made us a people willing to sacrifice fun for respect.
    But my road is my savior, my god that gets me out of the trap, rescuing me right before I eat the cheese and get my neck broken. My road, my path, leads to adventure, insomnia and blurred words.

This is me alone... (final post)

There was no Wednesday.

You can't keep fire contained for long. It will flicker while you watch, waiting for it's moment to burst into flames, scorching the earth and destroying everything in its way. I've been sucking in and spitting out the charred remains of everyone and everything in my path these last couple weeks and it feels good to know that I still have the power. I tried not to destroy you, but it's hard to control a savage beast.

This battle you're fighting will never be won. I will not be contained, because I've decided that's who I want to be. I am the 2 percent that you speak of.           (I'd say it's even smaller.)

This is me alone... (I've lost count 2)

I sat outside my house, with the garage door down, so I could just be alone, and smoked a cigarette. It was nice, but I realized something...

I was talking about the "game" the other night. I understand now why I keep guys around, as friends. I've always thought I was independent; and honestly I am, but I'm keeping connections because I love to be wanted. I want to be the girl wanted by everyone. I want to be the girl you need around when you have something exceptional to say. And I'll be that.

It's my journalistic instincts coming out in me. I get to talk to everyone and get a little piece of who they are, and then when the job is done you keep into contact just in case you need them one night, but you're nothing more than the girl that got away. The girl they'd make out with, but never get attached to. A journalist is always a "friend with benefits."

This is me alone.. (I've lost count.)

No guy wants a girl like me. Unless they're idiots; and most are, but only once. They'll be a part of your game, the game you play so well, only once.

And this is the game: Guys are like barbies for little girls. Like a mermaid barbie, whose hair changes colors underwater. You have to have it, and when you get it you play with it constantly for months. But then, mermaid barbie deluxe edition comes to the toy store shelves and this barbie not only has hair that changes color underwater, but also can be wound up and swim by herself. Now, of course old mermaid barbie gets tossed into the ghetto with short-haired naked barbies, and the deluxe edition mermaid barbie now receives all the attention, because she's new and different and offers more delight.

I said months, but with better, stronger and faster technology it's becoming merely weeks before the new turns old.

Forgive us little girls.

Love is impatient and totally absurd

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preserves."
This cliche bible verse makes my stomach quiver, as if it might throw me into a fit of dry heaving. If this is love, my friends, then love, there is none.

EXAMPLES TO COME

Is it protection or jealousy? Trust or denial? Hope or again denial? Preservation or selfishness?

This is me alone.. (8)

I can feel when you're not thinking of me. You weren't last night.

The feeling tugs at my heart
crushing through bones
and tearing through skin,
Until it falls to the floor
attached by only one artery.

There on the carpet
I  see it softly beating still.

I should call you.

If you say yes
it will be pulled over the edge of the bed
soaking up the bloody mess like a sponge.
There will be no trace of a heart attack.

But if you say no
the artery will be severed
and I'll have a big mess to clean up tomorrow.

This is me alone... (3)

I think today went pretty well. I didn't talk to him at all. I thought about texting him, but then I remembered that we've split. Sometimes it doesn't feel real. It's only real because of me.

I don't have much to say today. I was busy and that kept my mind off the tremendous heartache I'm feeling. I'll lay in bed and stare at the ceiling soon and that's when I'll think about it. How nice would it be to creep my ten little ice cubes onto his stomach and watch him squirm? How nice would it be to pull the tiny hairs on his chest with my lips? How nice would it be to wake up with him?

The over-sized shirt on my teddy bear only smells like me now. I wonder if he would loan me another.

Thursday is coming... and I'll see him then. I wonder what I'll do. What if I forget and throw my arms and legs around him and whisper in his ear "I miss you." I hope I do that.

This frustrates me the most. He doesn't understand that I love people. I'm not sure what it is, but I feel like I have a connection with everyone, especially people I've never met. It must be my passion as a journalist. I want everyone to feel the way I do about people, even the most recluse and eccentric. Everyone has a story and if the audience would only hear that story maybe they would understand. Maybe the fear and name calling would cease and we'd all be happy. I fear that this passion will end up making me more dysphoric, because idealism only goes so far before runs into reality.

Dolphin Stampede

This is me alone... (2)

I didn't sleep well last night. When I finally got to sleep I had horrible dreams. This only reminded me of you.

I would breathe hard or jolt and you would wrap your arms around me and say, "It's okay. It's okay." You probably don't remember, but you probably weren't awake. I was; scared of the tomato faces and grandmas holding pitch forks. But for that one moment, it made me feel safe. I knew that if there was a monster in the darkness, it would get us both and we'd suffer the same and that would make it much more bearable to be taken.

Even when you don't care you do.

I felt lost when I didn't talk to you, but I think I've always liked being lost. Then you see how people really feel, because without you they feel lost too.

A guy asked me if I was single now. "No, I'm not single. I'm independent," I said.

This is me alone... (1)

I slept for most of the day. I didn't really feel like getting up, moving or thinking about my current situation.

I finally did though.

After sealing my intention of not thinking about him and just loving the present at yoga, I smiled, although the sky was filled with shadow. I like it overcast. It makes me feel as though I'm in the right to be depressed, and that makes me happy.

I took a shower and looked in the mirror. Were those tears welling up at the edges of lids? Was my lip quivering? I walked away from the mirror, but returned to look into my eyes and wonder what was in there. There was a want to buy a pack of cigarettes, but that would mean getting into my car and hearing the start of that song. I'm her in another life. There was a want to be held while watching the screen, but that would mean pretending the chest I was rubbing smelled like Armani.

I'm writing this because that's what I do.

All I need is time. All I want is to know whatever I'm feeling cannot be erased by the time. I don't even think you'll read this, but if you do maybe you'll start to understand the real reason I hurt you and I hurt me. You think you know why... It was too quick, too out of nowhere to not be about another guy. But, I'm not interested in what they're offering. At least not yet. Because these feelings have not faded, and I'm starting to think, by the tears falling into the cracks of the keyboard, they're not going to.

I'm afraid though... My life, the life that I want, the life that I will do everything for, does not accommodate togetherness, is not preferred by soul mates and is not suited for one love.