loong loong looooong time running

i haven't been ovulating and i should take some progesterone but i'm afraid it's going to cause some sort of downward spiral so i keep putting it off.

i did it because i was afraid/because i was noble/because i was bored/because i had just walked through literal hell/because i couldn't stand your endless panicking for one more minute/(last, not least)because i can't even begin to (drumroll) conceptualize the promise of being less alone. now that i've obsessed about it for a month i sort of can? maybe? but that doesn't count, because nothing ever counts until they are turkish sentences. better yet: actions. as in, behavior. (haha, i can't even say it with a straight face.)

i came home and i couldn't straighten my legs. somewhere in there i spent two days with the absolute certainty that i was going to throw up any minute. there are still days where i can't listen to music, can't put milk in my coffee, can't wear my clothes. all in my quest to avoid pain, lol.

i keep misjudging how much discipline this takes. i've been conditioned to analyse! i've been trained to extrapolate! my whole life! i've learned to fear! i'm told i'm not supposed to do any of those things! i fail to do as i am told! now i hate myself! but i'm not supposed to do that either!

i made you fear, and now i have to forgive myself for it. forgive you, for being fucking useless. forgive myself again. i can't help being angry at this time. call back later.

you never play along when i'm angry, which, mad respect, bro.

if i can keep one thing, i'd like to keep that sky, please. apparently it brings out my eyes.

somewhere patient, somehow kind

imagine i quieted down
imagine i got over myself
got on with it
imagine
that

thinking of the key the key the key

i am an american aquarium drinker

in the library with the wrong tim winton novel circa 2010.

notes for the good of the service:

high concentrations of intellectual curiosity may inhibit networking.

stop talking and check comprehension. stop early, stop often, stop and listen.

don't let people bore you into being rude: it looks like the polite thing to do at first but the outcome is the same.

like a war/like a warning

long ago in kentucky

things i wanted to know the most when i was a child:

1. what is it like to be someone else?
2. how long is ten years?

turns out:
1. ERR
2. it's a long time.

let us therefore fear ourselves and fight on the beaches where it tosses its whatsis

if i had successfully committed alien genocide in another galaxy, maybe then i would know what to do?

the good progress!

and that is how i came to be a recovering four quartets fan. i mean, it changed my life: it is noncommittal, it has allusions, it sounds really good, whatever. but i simply can't afford to be this zen about shit i need to get done, dammit. even if me not being zen = panic attacks. 

april this year

i feel like i am finally (please god) learning how to love: it's all a bit bitty at the moment but i keep getting coffee by myself and thinking, i can go longer like this. i have never feared losing a friend, even when it might've done me some good; i'd rather be right. i'd rather love whatever's around. maybe get earplugs?

up next: how not to be afraid of women.

 

it's hard if you can't change it / it's worse if you don't try

put it on my headstone: alfred skilton - just telling you a story about the lake fever. i always end up grinning like a loon during my commute imagining gord laying on the canadiana -- want to beeee your wheezing screen door! want to beeee your stars of Algonquin! --  while the girl goes "hurry!" also we're soulmates and i'll be lonesome when he goes.

just their luck that virtue and moir won worlds and didn't get to be happy about it. pity me too who has to avoid them all next year lest i sink into a deep depression when they inevitably fail. although chances are i'll do that anyway.

the ronde's tomorrow, apparently. whatever that is.

i want my conscience to be true before you, it says. but you doesn't exist. and you don't either. and i can't exactly form an unhealthy attachment to something that makes me more productive. and healthy attachments are boring. and

roll right the r's

to the tune of "tired of waking up tired" from the eponymous 1977 album by canadian punk icons the diodes: i'm tiiired of flirting on autopilot, flirting on autopilot, flirting on autopilot (i'm also tired). when i don't censor myself i become interesting (in small doses), and sexless. when i do censor myself, i fail miserably at censoring myself. yesterday i survived a (verbal) lynching from a random group of women. i still somewhat wish i could talk to you about it so i can feel like shit watching you shrug. i somewhat do, as they say.

turn down for what?

darling! because--

writing poetry: surprisingly complicated. much like, well.