10.29a

I'm going to start from the end.

I felt happy.

I left her.

Then she yelled at me.

I yelled at her.

I caught her arm and spun her around.

She said she hated me.

We talked about what was wrong.

After that, I felt wrong inside.

Then she tried to avoid me.

I asked her if she really did like me.

She frowned when I said I liked her.

I felt happy.

10.27c

I throw myself into the air and about as I reach the crest of my jump I have to stop and consider what I'm doing here. Throwing my body willy-nilly isn't the clearest path to health I've ever heard. Especially dangerous is the fact that I don't actually know what is beneath me. A pit of spiders? A cauldron of flame? A marshmallow forest? The only people who know are dead, and besides, I don't have enough time to ask them.

I suppose my only option is to fall.

10.27b

I'm waaaay waaaay (10 posts) behind. I suck at this.

Why do some words (monkey sausage) make no sense together?

Why do some words (darling lover) sound so sweet to human ears?

Why do words like (darkest night) and (rainy weather) consume our minds without an other

option for the words to use? Why not (ink)(deep)(damp) or (blue)?

Cliche, what did I ever do to you?

10.27a

My eyes shudder to a close. Still, the force of curiosity throws them open cracks at a time. Revulsion shoves them shut again and again until

raw

untempered

short-sighted

lust throws the doors of my mind open and pulls in as much filth as it can. It's like doing lines of crack or burning through vials of heroin by blowing it into the last good vein behind my eyeball.

Until my wife walks in, of course, when I, crying out for help, only do bad things where she can catch me and know my pain (never in a dark corner hidden) because all I want is for her to reach out.

2.23

I think it's the 23rd. I have no idea. Oh! Yeah, it is. My post earlier was ignorance-spawn because it was the 22nd. No joke! Real story.

The worst part of being depressed is knowing that you're depressed. I had a good friend describe depression as a warm blanket of sad that he wrapped around himself. Feeling like a victim made all the bad things explainable, made all of the hurt make sense. Everything felt a little safer when he knew what to expect (more pain) and knew it wouldn't change anything (still sad).

But since I know about it, all the imbecilic, asinine, comforting things that everyone does don't work. I can see right through my ploy. I can moan and cry and slap my head and say "stoppit idiot, you don't deserve to be sad. This is a phase, it will pass, and your life is still better than a lot of people's" and it still doesn't make any of the pain go away. So then I get depressed about the fact that I'm depressed and nothing makes sense any longer.

Basically, I preclude my own ability to feel good, heartwarming sorrow. Idiot.

10.22a

He is done. Finished. Kaputt. So, he collapses onto a surface-it doesn't matter which-and just kind of seeps into the carpet. He hasn't taken off his tie or even let go of his briefcase. Done.

If he looks closer to his nose, the carpet fibers fall out of focus at a very specific point. He wonders: do other people lose focus at a different point? What if there were some people who could focus on their nose, even? Are there people who can focus on a point inside their head? Anyway, the fiber two inches away that juts up too high is right within range. He contemplates reaching up and squashing it but it would take too much effort. He's done. So he just blows at it instead. It doesn't move.

He lets his eyes wander farther and farther from his head until they sweep over the walls and the cabinets. He imagines his eyes as guns that shoot out sight. He pockmarks the wall for a while until the room looks like imaginary Stalingrad. He contemplates flopping over to pockmark the ceiling but he has no energy. He's done.

She walks in. "What are you doing lying there?" He contemplates answering but he's done. "Hello? I know you're tired but I'm tired too and I've been working this whole time you've been lying there. Get in here and help me!" He's done. "Fred, you are so lazy. Get up off your fat butt and come in here and help me!" Done, finished, kaputt.

"Fine!" She throws up her hands and storms out.

He's done, but he would have gotten up, stormed the gates of hell itself, and dismantled a jet with his teeth to hear a "please."

10.17a

He always demands things from me. Who does he think I am, anyway? I'm not some all-powerful God giving him his every wish. The worst part is that he makes me want to give to him anyway.

Him and his

silly cheeky smile

shuffling gait

sophisticated jargon

well-ironed shirts

pleated pants

fancy champagne

pleas for approval

scuffy torn up shoes

10.16b

The chill always rolls down my spine and spreads out through my ribcage. I shudder a little, and my breath juts and sputters. Eventually a single sob breaks through as glistening sadness blurs my vision. I always try to fight the tears. Tonight they come freely. My power is not enough to stop the barrage of emotion.

I have to sob silently though, or someone might try to comfort me.

And that would be the worst of all.

10.16a

I never catch a break. Just when life is going well, little pieces fall off the edges. Something important breaks. Someone yells at me. Nothing works.

But its never major enough that it merits real complaint. I'm still alive, well-fed, and sheltered. I don't see any real suffering anywhere.

I think it is in this environment that it is easiest to sin.

Hebrews 11:25

10_13b

Everything is kind of crashing in around me lately, so I'm going to just keep trying to keep up.
Today I will not write something creative, but discuss creativity.

I lose all of my gusto/chutzpah/power to do anything when I am tired/stressed/angry. Mostly stressed. I have to have down time to equal out and cancel my stress. I have juuuuuust enough work this semester that I have been able to keep up day-to-day without doing anything excessive. Now, however, I have two two-page papers due within a week and the idea of that is making me want to play a video game.
Am I running away? Or am I actually acting normally and just blowing off steam? I think it's the second one, but part of me is afraid it's the first.
I need to let my wife/long-term employers know this tidbit about me. With sufficient downtime, I perform admirably and am happy a majority of the time. Without sufficient downtime, I perform fine for a week and crash for a month. I am like a car running along the edge of a cliff. I need to put my hands on the wheel and feel like I am in control often enough or else I will eventually run off a cliff and never come back.

Bad news.

10_13a

I don't love myself anymore. I just hate the way my legs jiggle when I walk up the stairs. I hate the way my smile rolls up on one side. I hate the way my eyebrows peak in the middle. I hate the way my arms flop on down to my hands. I hate my knees and my eyes and my tiny, tiny feet.

It doesn't matter, though. Because she's blind.

10.11b

He forgot to say he loved her.

It wasn't particularly important at the time. It seemed obvious to him. She understood. It wasn't worth saying. Haha.

It's important to know.

10.11a

I actually need to write several today because I stink at writing these hooray.

My life is like a rickshaw.
(I don't yet know why, but I just feel like it is. Let me explain on the fly, because I haven't heard of it before.)

I'm on a trip. I feel like I'm in a different country, and I need to get from here to there and I'm doing it as fast as I can. I am going somewhere, but I don't feel like I'm changing on the way. I can smell and see and hear things but I can't stop to savor them. I have to run past. I'm going to have to pay for my trip, and I don't know the person I'm paying, so I begrudge it.

The road is bumpy. I'm going to wake up bruised and the worse for wear. I don't feel like the person pulling the rickshaw really cares what I'm feeling or how I'm suffering, and all of my cries of pain have no effect on the back of their unfeeling head. I can see other people walking, jostling through a crowd, or being pulled in their rickshaws. Each ignores the others' cries. I can't help, so I ignore as well. It causes less pain for me. It doesn't change my desire for them to notice me.

The one thing I am sure of is that someone is pulling my cart. But I don't pay attention to the rickshaw driver. I can't tell if he's talking to me anyway, so I don't think I'm missing anything. I've told him my destination, but I realize that he might take me his own path, off the main road, because he knows the town. He might even take me to the wrong place, because we aren't speaking the same language. I'm not even sure I got the name of the place right.

But God knows where I'm going and I'm glad he's pulling me.

10.8a

See? Superfluous a.

I feel it like a sliver of bone that somehow got between my lungs. It moves when I feel sad and digs right into my sternum and the pain flies up to my neck and wraps around my jaw. My hands twitch. My legs lose strength. I collapse.

Sorrow.

10.7a

I'm just getting into the habit of putting "a" on all my first posts of the day even if I don't have a second one.

I lift my eyebrows a twitch. She notices, of course. She sees all the things I do wrong.

She clears her throat. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Immensely."

I tap my fingers on the table in a pitter-pat rhythm, faster than fast. I'm bored. Bored out of my skull. Her hands slowly close over my fingers, but they keep twitching down toward the table. I had to finish my rhythm sequence and she interrupted at the ta-ta-ta BA BA BA section (which is of course the best part) but wouldn't let me finish with a TA-ta-ta-ta-ta.

"You know why we're doing this, right?"

"Sure."

"Then stop, please."

I can hear the tree on the window. I can hear the cat in the next room. I can hear the clock on the wall. I can smell the lilacs in the kitchen. I can smell the soap on her hands. I can smell the sweat on my neck. I can feel my watch and my pants and the muscles in my legs. My whole body moves with my pulse.

My eyes dart over everything in the whole room and I feel like my eyelids are going to burst. My hand twitches toward them to check if they're really open all the way but her hand is still on mine so I can't move. I shake my head and close my eyes.

"Good" she says. "Thirty seconds. Now, sit up and you can try again."

10.6a

MODULUS stood atop the pile of burning wreckage, his cape flapping freely in the breeze. He had made sure to get a very lightweight cloak just for this very purpose, but when it wasn't windy it was merely depressing and not very warm. But his narrator digresses.

MODULUS cleared his throat, a bit daintily for a man of his size. He never was a very gruff man, which is why it confused his mother and friend Tonya when he decided on his line of work. Tonya is a fair-haired, black girl--which is to say that she dyed her hair sometimes (usually on Tuesdays because that was when Morgan, her favorite hairstylist worked). Anyway, Tonya and Morgan usually get talking and that was when Morgan found out about how Tonya didn't like the way MODULUS' life was going. Morgan's a nice guy anyway, so he didn't try to stick in his own opinion, but if you ask him, it's too soon for anyone to do what MODULUS decided to do. But I digress again.

MODULUS came strolling down the wreck and stopped in front of the president. "I need the power, or in twelve hours' time, I will be in your office, calling every world leader and telling them all your secrets." (It should be here noted that the president was only the president of the local By-Mor, and the world leaders wouldn't be interested. This fact had not escaped MODULUS, as it was only an empty threat. But that's all I have to say for now.)

MODULUS twitched and then decided his narrator was doing a hack job and that he could do better. Wait I think he's comin-yes he definitely isokayyouhavetotellmymotherthat Ididn'teatthemarshmallows itwasjohnyouhavetobelievemeMum Ilvioall;jfiaaaaasssssssssssssdf;; huuuurk blaaaaaaagh

MODULUS, DISCOURAGER OF THE HORDE IS HERE, IN YOUR ROOM, BEHIND YOU, BUT DON'T LOOK BECAUSE HE WILL JUST DEMATERIALIZE AND THEN YOU WILL BREATHE HIM AND HE WILL SLOWLY KILL EVERY CELL IN YOUR LUNGS

[be afraid]

10.5a

I was so far ahead! How did I fall this far behind?

I throw my head back and laugh. It sounds dry and raspy, but it is mine. Really, "laugh" is not quite right. I bray. It is long and loud and it comes from my gut and it rasps along in great gasping wheezes of breath that scrape the ceiling.

10.2

thy party rebels froggin upstairs bytes jyp quip twiced. sheep dream in chaps. yokes grow lugs farting your pants un-done. with whom then we wow rigs or jets of heathens. lone apples especially lava-word young babby. tupperware stick together when i wed methane gods. rod etc. always prays without witnesses or friends. bye-bye.

10.1b

I'm hungry enough that I want to puke. I haven't eaten anything for 12 hours and the worst part is that I knew what I was doing but I didn't do it on purpose. My torso swings from too warm to too chilly as my stomach works itself into a tiny, angry, acidic knot in my gut.

10.1

I'm gonna be better this month. . . . ?

My fingers quiver lightly over my chin. I prickle myself. The best part of a haircut is the sea of short hair at the nape of my neck. Now, the best part of hair has migrated to my face. I look weird because I rub my cheeks a little too much.