||[Jul. 22nd, 2008|12:33 pm]
|||||Maria Mena- I'm Sorry||]|
Like an animal, I've sent up every predictable distress signal. Clutching childhood pets to my chest against their will, their geriatric limbs wiggling in futile attempts to get as far away from me as possible. Taking aimless drives and blasting the Smiths, the usual twinge of shame absent. Smoking instead of eating, Sulking in public, pretending to look at the comic book with the soft folded edges I've read more times than anyone should . Every thought I have that doesn't pertain to him, to my weak character, or to the relevance of my simple line drawings I cling to with an intensity usually reserved for lip synching to "Yer Blues" alone in my room. I try to ride out the unrelated thoughts as long as possible. Thoughts about how much I should ration my reading material, about how I should recreate the texture of my chewed up inner lips with synthetic materials, about Gouda cheese.
Emboldened by a pleasant phone call home, I feel wholly confident in my decision to take the longest route possible. The longest route possible being the polite way of saying I just wanted to drive by the apartment, see his car, see if the lights are on. I'm too numbed out to acknowledge how creepy I'm being. Rolling past, the mental pictures of five seconds prior are replaced by an almost deafening feeling of jealousy. My plan's been thwarted...I can't even see the car because there are others parked behind it. Driving stone-faced in the dark, I'm no longer hearing the music crackling out of my shitty car stereo, but the dramatized and imagined conversations that must be taking place back there. But then I remember that I instigated the sanctions. I remember how invalid my feelings about all this are supposed to be. I have selfish and manipulative thoughts. I want to call, force him to be reminded of me while participating in idea synthesis with friends, to ensure that my presence is there even if I am not.
I'm wondering if always being deeply emotionally invested in someone else is crippling me. I wonder if it's a sign of weak character.
Phrases related to combing hair always conjure up images of perfect, immaculate people for me.
I invent people to be intimidated by. Girls who are classically beautiful and shy, as well as inexplicably perverse, Women with quirks that are almost painfully fascinating who, despite modest means, always seem to be dressed to the nines in vintage blouses and wool A-line skirts...the way I wish I could afford to dress in my most shallow and pathetic hours.
Luckily I found my I-pod, so now I'm forced to listen to something besides "Good Woman", "He War", and Halfway to a Three-way on repeat. I'm seeking out neutral music with which I have little or no history.