i dont know anything about my body anymore. i feel like it's some old lover that got up and left me one day, but we're worthy of each other and we're moving on from old dogmas and we're sharing life again. only, i am the one who never answers my fucking phone.
my best friend has been calling me, and i wont answer. i know why i wont answer, i just pretend like it's not my choice and that i am so busy, or stupid, that i can't reach the fucking phone whenever she calls. i will call her in the morning. i think she loves me.
i keep rubbing my face. it feels good. my hands smell like salt. ive been masturbating all night, but i keep floating away from the sensations. i can't feel anything. i finally took out a tampon.
i know, i should find a new obsession. preferably in the legible category. what am i now? a legislator? i dont even know what that means. all i mean is my fascination with physical prescence digusts me, because its cliche and i dont believe myself when i crave it........i feel like a poetry book published for the sixth grade self-esteem/human development inklings, a two dimensional rehab pamphlet that they pass out in class, and then you have to pass tests about knowing yourself because the psychologists, they're actually perceptive now, not lunatics that practice mind control. now we can all trust each other and prove our relationships with linguistics and say semantics is fake when we create it to be real ourselves and the words, they're prewrapped. the ideas are prewrapped with saran shit. that stuff reminds me of wrapping my own self when i am physically wrapping the sandwhiches i am physically thinking of suffocation, because i have to examine myself and what i am really trying to say when i say thankyou outloud to the store clerk or i wrap the sandwhich several layers tighter than what is absolutely necessary, before i begin to wonder why i need the wrap and why do i pretend to care about the garbage killing the earth if i really dont and if i love honesty so much why do i lie all the fucking time and no, i dont want it to make sense, i really dont, but i cant stop thinking about it. i guess that i know there is always some way to make it make sense but the sense doesnt exist in a literal, all encompassing way. it means, i can make my brain shut up for a little while so i can sleep.
i cant sleep.
i am trying not to mention names, but i want to talk about people and it sounds stupid for me to use pronouns, like i am trying to make an artistic statement in the midst of my art that isn't quite intellectually probing at me already. stiff. stiffness. i have been rubbing my clit all night and i can still feel it but like i said, not the sharp, satisfying pull i yearn for. it doesnt matter. i am bored, and i am trying to create meaning and religion out of my masturbation. but it's not masturbation, i swear. it's.....a nervous habit. i dont do it because i feel like fucking. i do it because i dont feel like doing anything else.
i am slightly embarrassed right now.
i think i am paranoid because i am fucking tired. i love this realization, this sense-making, sense-cumming. laugh with me.
i feel like i arrived home wreaking of
health and now i have spread dirtiness and irresponsibility and it's all because i left my treatment center. they fixed me, but now i am evil again. honestly----
i love the idea of dirtiness and irresponsibilty in the light of the morals that i actually have. no, i can't pick up my clothing, because there's a bunny bleeding all over the SUV. that SUV was fucking beautiful before it met me.
no. do you know what i mean? i was being sarcastic. so, my dirtiness is not acceptable because it was a sign of me being near death. i could say insane, but that rings positive, or stupid, but that doesnt exist usually, or sick, but that doesn't quite cut it. so, considering i dont want to die prematurely, because that would be fucking irrresponsible on my part, i shouldnt be dirty.
my back hurts. jeremy, i love you.
i found some books to read. the red tent has a scene where the man dies after they've made love and she wakes up covered in his blood. i feel like that happened to me. maybe that's because i read it in a book. and no, i don't live my life through books, it's fucking impossible, you perceptive hypocritical thing-a things. i dont know what to call you. i feel judgemental, and i begin to judge myself. so, no, i haven't ever woken up to a corpse of the person i love. i have woken up to them breathing, snoring, whispering, groaning, splayed on top of me. i was lonely. i felt alone, but i also felt loved. it's difficult to accept love. yes, it is, i know it is because i am doing it.
i should probably masturbate again now. i dont know what else to say.
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