Coffeepots and Random Thoughts

A/N: An lj is a livejournal is my ex lover’s choice of blog. Names have been changed, because who really wants to rememberance these folks? Not I, sirs and madams, not I.

December 11, 2004

You know, this is why I don't like coming on here. Every time I try to update this massively whack ode to a relationship that was borne of mysticism and lies, I have such great and wonderfully witty things to say. I want to share them, so I simply sign on and wait for everything to get settled so I can do the typing thing. But then all the crap starts to catch up with me, all the rememberancing and fun crud of that nature or some other and I have to delete emails and blogs that I forgot existed, links to the journal of someone I really don't know and probably never did, find out how ridiculously hideous they continue to make their lj, and be put off by the remarks and comments that I guess are funny to whomever they refer to. In the special, secret land of inside jokes, it's okay for llamas and guava trees to dot the landscape of a world that exists only at certain times of the day, depending on the weather.

I'm good at this, or so bad it hurts everyone who notices, which is a very short list of persons I'm likely to strike physically if they happen to be in proximity to Angry Little Black Girl.

I had so many things to say, good and bad, but everything gets dashed out when I start cleaning up after the party and following destruction that was Summer and Autumn of 2004. I don't want to be bitter. I don't want to think about who I don't want to think about anymore, think about what a shame it was that I fell into something I shouldn't have and was educated on the dangers of combining teenage romance with computer love. I don't want to be pissed that I was never told to go away directly. I don't want to feel weird that I STILL don't know who the hell Terry Marsalis is, don't want to be mad that he wouldn't tell me, don't want to feel guilty that I was too afraid to push really hard and get all my questions answered.

You see, I'm not afraid to ask the questions or hear the answers. I'm sick of all the goddamn lies and cleaning up after all of them. There are so many loose ends and severed connections like telephone wires cut with a rusty pocketknife or safety scissors, lashing out and shocking, throwing sparks, refusing to lie down dead and admit defeat because the injustice that was doled out to them with the break of such an important line must be forever remembered and always respected.

If I were to say something to Terry, right now, this would be it "you know, things would be a lot easier if you were who I thought you were." Am I being too simplistic? That sounds like the perfect line to me.

Darling, I'm not ready for this love yet
Baby, I'm not ready for this love yet
If leaving means I'll just have to forget
Then I guess I'm not ready for this

And that's far too hard to hear, now
All your words they fall on deaf earsHow could you expect me
To believe you now you've left me
Let me go

There's no point in writing any of this. I always have so much to say, and it always is quickly forgotten and replaced by things that must be forgotten. I want to hurt you, I want to wound you in order to retain some shred of my pride so I can walk back into that party and act as if I haven't been spurned and rejected, exchange my shame for a smug smirk and order another glass of whatever-she's-having and make do, it's all in fun, hey, isn't it? Even when it's bad, you never let them know, right? Save face at all costs. And throw in some anti-depressants, would you? That would be kind.

"I intentionally wrote it out to be an illegible mess.
You wanted me to write you letters, but I'd rather lose your address
and forget that we'd ever met and what did or did not occur.
Sitting in the station, its all a blur of dancehall hips,
pretentious quips, a boxer's bob and weave.
and here's the kicker of this whole shebang:

You're in debt and completely fooled that you can look into the mirror
and objectively rank your wounds.
Sewing circles are not soley based in trades of cloth:
There are spinsters all around here taking notes, reporting on us as

Information travels faster in the modern age
in the modern age, as our days are crawling by so slowly."

Death Cab for Cutie “Information Travels Faster”

And all I can think of is 'now what am I going to do about prom?' I can't even force myself to think about the real problem of it (who's going to take me?) because that would be beneath me, my dear, my darling. Darjeeling darkling, you swarthy swami with your signature swagger.

I don't know why this is bothering me so much. I still can't decide how I feel about it, other than mild sadness. The hell- what is to be done about it now? Can I please have my complimentary box of closure now? I'd like to leave, but it's imperative that I have it when I do.

It feels unfinished and unresolved up to this very second. I can't keep on stabbing because I'M not even supposed to be here, or at least that's how it feels. I mean, now that he's finally gone-gone, mhm, oh yes, he's been gone for so long, but now he's signed out and took his clothes off the floor, oh no, what did I do? What to do? What did I do wrong?

It feels like I'm going to be sent away, or I have been, very shortly. I don't want to be put in storage or given to the poor. I feel like a broken toy who everyone speaks about in hushed tones at parties. That's absurd. I don't want Terry to put me where Asa put me, in that place where I'm frozen in time or not and I'm too far to mention, so all you do when you remember is shake your head. Just, a place for mistakes. I know they feel bad that things went wrong and guilt ensues, but other than the times they're reminded of me, they've long since moved on. It's certainly not a daily activity, the remembrancing.

As if I'm some pitiful, helpless creature that was descended upon, toyed with, and left to die and they're just so overcome with guilt and shame that they can't stand to have me near them, lest they be offended by me, and so they leave, for they have better things to do, and sometimes, they'll see me and be reminded, and they shake their heads...and turn, walking just far enough away so as not to be seen.

I don't like the way that sounds, and I don't think that's how it is, but that's sure as hell how it feels. I feel like I'm being pitied when I speak to either of them, and it makes me sick. How is it, really? I'd love to know, because I don't, because I haven't acquired that information, because they won't tell me. Just like they won't tell me how they really are, what's really going on, what really happened to them, what's wrong, what's right, who the hell- I just want closure. I hope I'll be satisfied then. I can't say for sure how I'll feel once I get it, if I get it. I've never gotten it before.