13.Feb.2003
hrm.
--
hrm.
In a fervor.
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My hand-writing is fierce. It is wild and jagged and unruly. Penmanship of either a doctor, or a burnt-out English rockstar. Wielding the scalpel or the ax. I am coordinated enough for just one.
Behind me I smell the remnants of red bell peppers being processed, and I feel purified because the contents of my stomach has emptied, my eyes are burning, my head is buzzing, and this fever prevails. Coming down with another flu.
I was sent home.
--
I am two months pregnant. I am a puerile, supercilious harridan with a penchant for deceiving those that I claim to love. My name is Nicole.
--
When Giz, my Other(tm), announced that Nicole was two months pregnant today, I dropped my face into my waiting hand, pressing into the jawbone, open-palmed, groaning.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"Work two part time jobs to support it," he responded, reaching for a cigarette I denied him.
"What about school?"
"What about school? I have another seven months to worry about this."
"And your wrestling?"
"...I can give it up."
--
I was, at one point, his proximity mother. He is sixteen years old. He has been wrestling for three years and could pen almost every badly-pheromoned opponent to the mat. I spend weekends with him out of city at tournaments, and he was shooting for the Olympics. The fact he's willing to toss this for a promiscuous, ill-fated, backstabbing harlot confounds me.
And yet, not at all.
This clich�d foolish love which forces us to conveniently overlook the negative aspects of a human being, causing them to appear as perfection incarnate, is one of the most encumbering fucking things on the face of the planet. We become love-blind. Fearing loss. Change. Doubt commences. Although. Loneliness dissipates.
I think this is bullshit.
When Jay insinuated I should forsake music for him, I severed ties. You don't tread on that sacred ground. You do not belittle it. You do not yawn at it. It is not your background noise, as it is not my hobby. You do not touch that. Keep your hands away from my keyboard.
She runs around with blokes named James, Jonathan, Josef, even her proclaimed psycho ex, David. She will berate Giz if he doesn't call within a designated time, although she has been drinking with the guys, flashing her bra, the entire night before.
And he allows this.
I feel a violence well up in me to take them both down.
--
"You're going to give up wrestling?"
"I love her. I mean, unless the child's not mine ..."
"Are you having protected sex with her?"
"Doesn't matter, she's pregnant."
"Yes, of course, you know, pregnant girls with bad reputations also come disease-free these days, I hear."
"..."
"Do something about that immediately. You yourself have professed you don't trust her. Don't be asinine. You are smarter than this shit."
"I know."
We have a decidedly very balls-to-the-wall relationship. I won't suppress thoughts around him nor will he around me. I managed to pat him on the shoulder, take him into a one-armed embrace, request an amniocentesis, and affectionately leave for work. To which I was, to my dismay, sent home a mere three hours after arriving, thinking.
I am disheartened.
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time & machine