What a week. My Dad visited last weekend. It was great to see him, and also to have the reminder of why we get along sooo much better when he lives far, far away. Then Monday to Manhattan for Jamie's show + hanging out. Monday night after only five or so comped Grey Goose shots and a couple of beers and NYC pizza I'm careening uptown on this hellish subway puking into a plastic bag from the bagel shop while simultaneously crying, snotting, and laughing hysterically as the nice-to-meet-you couple across from us bonds over the scene's horror. Tuesday I see the dinosaur bones and buy gold necklaces. Catch the Fung Wah back in time to see some friends before bed.
I have a lonely pit in my stomach and I know it's because I do not need people. I let myself be there for others, always, but do not reach out often, and no one asks. Instead I keep things inside and they gnaw a hollow cavern in my guts. Scream into my mouth and you get an echo.
Oh, Liberty, when you gonna learn you can't count on people? I usually try to avoid passive language here, but in the past week stuff has happened that really makes me question where I am in this flashing color world. Of course at 25 I go into all relationships knowing you can't trust anyone, but of course at 25 I always hope I will be proven wrong. Nihilistic as I am lately, I'm not pessimistic enough that I don't get disappointed. It must be me, these things are always me, the way I act toward the people I choose to be around leads me to these relationships where I have to be strong and standing always. I guess I'm not the sort who should play that game where you fall backwards and wait for of-course hands to catch you.
Don't worry about me, ladies and gents. I don't need any of you with your weaknesses and your failures and so shiny specialness. Letting people down is easy and boring. Being there for people is the curious intriguing act these days. Too bad no one's as interesting as I make them out to be.
The rug gets pulled out from under you again and again, but you always get back up to stand on it. I mean, what choice do you have? Unless you just want to lie there, you gotta stand on this tenuous surface, even though you know it's just gonna knock you on your ass again the first chance it gets.
Oh fuck those cold cro-magnons and their abstract thought. Would it really have been so bad if we'd stayed the tool-makers and never turned our hairy hands to art and want and the gleaming stars? I feel sick again.