I can’t stop picking at it, I just keep scratching and digging at the tissue. It’s too ugly to ignore, but I know if I stop touching it I’ll recover just fine. However, I am a masochist and logic is not my forte. As I repeatedly irritate the wound, I can almost feel that gut wrenching feeling that entrenches my stomach and holds my heart hostage amid my bowels; it’s at the core of the injury. The sensation is all too familiar, it’s the same feeling you experience when you’re rejected for a date to the 8th grade social or you discover that your significant other never really liked a particular author but said otherwise to appease you. In the process of forming, the lesion, begins to take shape and pusses over. It is at that moment when one realizes the occupancy of the foreign ailment. The lesion of heartbreak.
I have deleted my facebook. I know this bares no weight on any one’s life but my own. I am slowly erasing my virtual existence. Although, since this site exists I suppose I am not entirely dissolving from the cyber landscape.
Every time I start up my computer and I slide the cursor over to the URL bar to type in the site I want to visit and get lost in, I can’t help but begin to type facebo….then I get upset. I don’t know where to direct my anger, should I be pissed off that I have logged into that site so many times that it has now become an act of muscle memory, or should I be upset with the people I stalk or who are better known as my “friends”.
Lets be realistic. I only care about the well being of maybe a handful of people…maybe. Otherwise I am just taking a glimpse into the lives of others as I internally scrutinize what they are doing. “Jane Stein is so over it <3″. who gives a fuck? I do. As I sit and call Jane a worthless bitch. It’s all incredibly unhealthy, thus I am returning to the real world or whatever the real world is in 2010. Hopefully, more appealing than the virtual one I have recently left. If not I am fucked and so are you.
Now all I need to do is get a land line for a phone and I’ll almost be a person again. Who knows maybe I’ll go all out and pick up a hobby, start collecting and what not. Showing people the useless crap I call treasure, just to keep myself busy and out of other people’s lives. Jokes. But seriously phone line; it’s happening.
I almost felt alive again on my way home from work. I was listening to The Dave Brubeck Quartet and I forgot how much I loved _Blue Rondo A La Turk. My entire body went numb and reinvigorated itself with the soul of those first few notes. Nothing was on my mind except that song. Words could not describe this corporeal awakening; it was much needed.
It’s 6:13pm and everything is not so simple. I can’t leave my apartment. No one is physically restraining me from leaving and lava does not surround the perimeter of my living area. Just the memories of a life once lived.
I’m probably going to deeply regret this, but it’s part of who I am.
I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or in the words of George Carlin shell-shocked. Unfortunately, no act of bravery or nobility provoked this disorder, just living. This may be the most honest thing I will ever write.
It’s very hard to function. I hate going out, I can’t sit with my back to any door, remembering things short-term is almost impossible, paranoia, etc. What’s probably the most upsetting is the inability to fully feel…I mean really feel. If I do feel an emotion its fleeting and I’m never in the moment with who ever I may be with; friend or significant other.
So what do you do when you can’t be human? The person I live with says it’s simple.
Personally, I sit at home and live the lives of others through wonderfully written pieces of literature. Although, sometimes even that is difficult to do. Flash backs are another issue in itself. Sometimes they are triggered by a conversation or place, other times it is a sporadic invasion of conversations that have never ended in my mind and continue to torment me. A cramped apartment in Brooklyn manifests around me. All the end tables are nicely polished and the wooden floors are still cold. My sanctuary was next to the radiator; it’s where I played with the small water bugs that crawled out from underneath. They were no bigger than a spec of dirt and they were my company when no one wanted me as theirs.
I think I’ve revealed enough of myself this evening.
I have concluded that my wedding song will be, I love how you love me by The Paris Sisters. If my name was Paula and my future husbands name was Paul, then it would be Hey Paula by Paul and Paula… I’m half joking when I say that. I will write an apology to my future husband.
Dear Mr. Husband,
Although I ruined the A La Mode and drank too many mojitos this week, I am madly in love with you and will try my very best not to leave my under garments hanging on the bathroom door knob. There will be bouts of all sorts of fun moods but when we reconcile there will always be a tremendous amount of love making. I will watch a lot of crap television and ask you to suffer in silence as I watch, but no worries, I do laundry. I will show you this after you awkwardly propose to me in front of my parents; both of them will be intoxicated and seem less than exuberant about our holy union. See you in eight years.
P.S. My sister is a lesbian.
This cant be real.
Everything is spinning and standing still all at once. I am overcome with anxiety, but I cannot feel my heart racing. I am dreaming about people that don’t exist and having conversations with things that aren’t quite there. Memories are rushing back, Madison Jean, my 4th birthday, English class, pine tree allergy, walking from corner to corner, asking my mother what an orgasm was because I had heard it on some cheap, tawdry, drama about high school teens, but I’m detached from the feelings that are in junction with them. Everything can’t be moving this slowly.
I need a music box.
I have an interview coming up for an Optician’s assistant. Currently, I work at a toy store and I’ve been a Sales Associate for a year now (fancy way of saying sales lady). Now why would anyone want to leave such a wonderful place? I work almost forty hours a week and spend more time around children and tin space men than I do anywhere else. The pay is not that great either, I put up with a lot of bullshit for minimal pay. I know I know, I’m twenty what makes me think I should get paid more? When you work for someone that hates toys and is eager to make a profit on anything, it’s very difficult to look past that sort of selfishness and greed. The store itself is wonderful, the gold tin ceiling and crimson red walls create a nostalgia that is hard to come by these days. However, I have rent to pay and cats to feed, so I must try my very best to resemble a grown up and sit behind some desk, answering questions about lenses, insurance, frames, etc.
I will miss some of my customers, but most of all I will miss Pipa. Dozens upon dozens of children walk through the store each and everyday. You forget most of them, but others you consider kidnapping. Pipa is one of the children I contemplated taking home with me. According to her sister Lola, who is eight and three quarters years old, Pipa is Three and a half years old. She is as tall as any other three year old girl, but she is much more quiet than any child that has pranced around the store. Pipa and I have a lot in common, we both love kitties, her favorite color is green, she just wants to play, and dolls are simply the cats pajamas. She only likes school a little bit and napping is her favorite. This information was not easy to attain. Technically I’m a “big kid” to kids like Pipa and she had to make sure I was approachable and one of her kind. I know that’s a weird description but observing children for so long at the store you come to discover these little quirks about kids. Pipa’s piercing blue eyes are what made me interact with her. She just looked at me as though she knew all the secrets in world and everything made complete and utter sense. Her light hair partially covered her eyes but she constantly swept them to the side to examine each and every toy.
“You have a lovely purse!”, complete silence and a look of bewilderment crossed her face. I realized she had big kid syndrome and continued to talk kid stuff with her. “That kitty you picked out is very cute..” more silence followed as well as a subtle twitch. I continued to ask her questions and show her toys I think she’d like. As I played with some of the dolls I asked her what her name was, and she finally spoke. “Pipa! Pipa is my name!”, I was shocked. I continued to ask more about her and that is when her sister Lola chimed in and revealed each of their ages and favorite toys. Those are the moments I will miss the most; the perceptions of children, but I suppose I must try to land this job and inform Mr. Davis (my imaginary client) when to pick up his lenses; enabling him to see the world a little more clearly.