02.Oct.2003
longing is so fucking pass�
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oh, my god
When have I ever actually used Diaryland as a means to vent instead of a means to construct half-assed adjective/noun lines pregnant with longing?
Okay, babies.
Jay surprised me by coming by tonight. I was ten seconds from securing a restraining order when he slipped me an envelope of money. On the envelope, he wrote, "For your medical bills".
I let him inside.
I drank a Hard Cola while he was here. Jay, in his great height of 5'6" stares down at me. His hair is growing back. He now has his eyebrow pierced. I was broke and in dire need of cigarettes. He bought me a pack of Marlboro Menthols. I was extremely wary of his intentions. He attested they were nothing but pure.
He left me at my house at 10PM with cash and a pack of cigarettes in my possession. He gave me well-wishes to give to my mother. He is as gorgeous as the day I met him. My ex-boyfriend. My emaciated body-builder with the abs of Adonis. My year of misery. My stupidly beautiful ex-paramour of literary disgust. My ex of one year. The moronic man who made me who I am today. That previous statement is surely hyperbolized, but damn it, this guy was Psycho Number One, and you know I feed off of those unwavering DNA strands. That fuck. That delicious piece of long-haired, cyan-eyed fuck. That prophet straight to the heart of God. That boy giving himself to redemption.
Or, maybe he just wants a lay.
Somehow, I feel nicer about humanity while being poetic.
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Todd, from Music Box, also does piercings on his daytime pay-roll. He is heavily considered. He told me two nipple piercings plus a silver chain connecting them would be $131.95. He is of course probably lying.
I met Christopher tonight, who told me of REM in Atlanta. I said I had $171.00 for that trip.
Kurt, my soul-sibling, is throwing a party states away from me. I said I had $171.00 to my name, in my account, for that trip.
What in the fuck is a girl to do?
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Tonight, I told Jason I loved him, for being my musical comrade for life, for being the Reaktor source of inspiration to me.
And tonight, I told Jubal, my best guy friend of three years, that he was my male Erato.
He is my phantasm. He comes into my dreams. He is possessed with a voice any Christian woman would hand her veil over to Jesus and say, "I'm sorry, Jubal wants me to strip naked."
I love Jubal. Perhaps he knows, perhaps he doesn't. He is my Slit. He is the reason I started that fucking useless diary. He is the reason my fingers push into my keyboard to make words. He is the most erotic fantasy I have ever had. He knows where he stands. He may be reading this now. He knows who he is to me.
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So, where should I go with this explosion of money?
Nipple piercings versus REM versus a party thrown by Kurt. Come on. I am such an idiot when it comes to money. I am the same woman who threw $85.00 (though from my father, not my hard-earned cash) away to Dallas, Texas for fifteen hours of a meeting that rubs dog-shit into my face now.
Help your Diaryland sister out.
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As a side-note, I love October. I always, without fail, fall in love in October.
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The last thing I asked Christopher, a 34-year-old lover of music, was, "Tell me there is a revolution inside of you. Tell me all of this musical passion of mine will go somewhere as I age. Tell me there exists a plane of word-imbued, sex-infused glory on the inside of you. That people of your kind were not meant to go down quietly. That people of your passion will not go out without a fucking fury. Tell me the road I'm on in that literary/musical world is right."
He said, "You are doing the right thing."
And it's fucking good enough for me.
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Prokofiev is taking me to bed. He will beat into my coverlets an andantino fever I am just now beginning to understand.
And, my lovers, my babies, my children of the revolution (look at all the filmatic references in one farewell!), it is fucking good enough for me.
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time & machine