Push Tug Shove Dive

Push, Push, Shove.

12/15

I’ve had breakfast like this before…quiet and convoluted with tension. The room is erupting with concerns and fears.

“why am I sitting at this table?”, I know those are the words he’s internalizing. For now, I know I cant make anyone happy at this table, including myself. I can tell his opinion of me has changed. I am a weird piece of furniture within his life and he doesn’t know where to place me. I can tell he’s afraid of me.

12/30

Falling Backwards. Time is dragging me through trenches of memories.

“You bes cute”    Sent Text

A check mark supersedes my electronic affection, making me aware that my cellular device has done what I pay $10.99 a month for: unlimited grammatically incorrect text messages peppered with flirtation to whoever I see suitable.

Tug Tug

1 New Message

“You bes cute too.”

I smile and shove my phone into my purse and proceed to walk towards my next class. My hand is still in pain from accidentally pouring hot coffee onto it. I was nervous…when we first met to have coffee, so it was only a matter of time before I tripped or accidentally spilled a hot beverage onto you or myself.

Nose Dive.

“So that’s it?”

“Yes…”

I take my favorite position alone once more; indian style on a hard wood floor. A fortress of cardboard embellishes my little apartment. This is a common theme within my life; I am constantly packing and unpacking.

Sometimes I don’t know what to pack so I pack everything all away. These belongings are mine and mine alone to deal with so who cares if I pack every little thing. Other times I do not know how to unpack things appropriately. I stall or become overwhelmed by the idea of starting anew and leaving some things behind. What if I didn’t pack everything I needed? What if I packed too little? What if I unknowingly disregarded something very important?

I guess one can never really know.

What I do know is that whoever resides in my mirror is a fucking bitch.

Why?

1) I don’t know her, so she really has no business lounging around.

2) She’s a little pathetic. I mean seriously, do your fucking hair woman. Put some mascara on….anything. If you’re going to stare back at me at least look nice.

3) She’s a constant reminder of things unchanged and perpetually static.

Backward Forward Push Shove Push Shove

Customer Service…Just a Moment.

How wonderful would it be if a kiosk for life existed?

This imaginary kiosk would resemble what seven year old children call BASE! in a game of tag. It’s your free ticket out of a horrendous game of tag. Once you reach base your heart stops chasing you.

It’s 2:10am and the world seems unfair.

My television is on but nothing is being watched, just heard. The sound of white noise. After all that’s what my life has been reduced to; white noise. Usually the site of powder blue around this time of year would excite any woman. It’s the color of Tiffany boxes that retain expensive jewelry; it means someone cares.

I spent 6 hours with this infamous shade of blue, and there was no jewelry to be found. Just a crisis worker, a sitter, and a psychiatric screener.

I suppose it meant that someone cared, but that’s past tense.

The seclusion room was my company for the evening. She’s as cold as her name, however, we are a feather from the same flock; No one ever stays too long and we let those that hurt inside of us.

I think I have one up on seclusion. The door to this room doesn’t have a lock and just anyone can swing in and out without much care. I, on the other hand, have recently installed only the finest deadbolt. Merry Christmas to me.

I’ll never let another person in for a very long time.

Base.

 

Hello Neighbor

I wrote this several months ago and I’ve decided to share it now. I’m not completely sure why I did not post this, but sharing is caring, after all.

Every morning I wake up to hungry cats and a stuffy bedroom. Cat hair usually cover my sheets, as well as my body. The floor is partially covered with dirty clothes, but I don’t mind because I’m somewhat of a mess myself. As I tip toe around the garments and make my way through the living room and into my kitchen I find my neighbor awaiting my company; my ex boyfriend. Everyday is like re-enacting a break up.

I will call him Mister Man for the sake of privacy. I dated Mister Man for four years. A week before my 18th birthday I packed all my belongings into a collapsible hamper and into the trunk of my ’97 Monte Carlo to live with Mister Man. My parents spent a large portion of my college savings on a cement hole. Such a hole is usually known as a pool, but to me it was a poor excuse to exhibit upper middle class wealth. Once turmoil ensued within my household, I decided it’d be best to move in with Mister Man after only a short period of dating. I will not trace back our entire relationship, but I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.

Fast forward.

I sign a lease, move in and proceed to purchase books and other items couples fill their love nest with..rice cookers, desk, bed(s), wall art. Now here’s where it gets fun. We break up, I know right? I probably fucked up more than he did, but don’t worry he managed to make me equally miserable.

Once, he became upset over pancakes. Yes, pancakes…the breakfast food. He had made pancakes one Sunday morning and after consuming a few bites I told him that his pancakes were amazing and that these particular pancakes were probably the best he has ever made. Mister Man’s face quickly turned sour and horrendously disgruntled, as though I told him I fed the cats bleach. “These are instant pancakes”, he retorts.

Fuck.

Shortly after his response he begins to tell me that I am simply uncultured and that I do not possess a refined tongue. Because as we all know the pancake is a delicatessen of only the finest individuals, such morsels never touch the tongues of simpleton. What the fuck was I thinking?

I am painting a rather negative portrait of him. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done my fair share of erratic and unexplainable behavior. I’ve thrown lamps to the floor, locked him out of the apartment, thrown shit out of the window, and destroyed the remote control. I am just as bad if not worse.

So how exactly does this particular living situation work? It doesn’t.

But, what exactly do you do when you’ve built an entire life around one person? Everything you’ve ever done was for one person. The furniture you purchased, the meals you attempted to cook, and the phone calls you made to inform him of your whereabouts. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. How to make all the pieces fit again with one missing piece, and if that missing piece is at all vital or one that can be done without and look just fine matted and framed.