17.Jul.2003

"are we done here?" yeah. i guess we are.

--

heaven forbid you have to face the ones you slight

I'm standing outside with a cigarette dangling out of my lips, next to two people who have taken it upon themselves to humorously bombard me with personal stories involving bloodlining tattoos. My cell begins to vibrate. I am caught in a moment of incessant laughter.

"Hello?" I say, tittering.
"Hey, Michelle?"
"Dustin?"
"Yeah, it's been a while."
"Yeah, it has, you stereotypical asshole," I say, and imagine my voice as calm and factual, low and amused.
"What?"
"You puerile fuck," I say.
"What?"
"You owe me an eternity of apologies."
"I do?"
"Yes."
"Is this about the last time I saw you?"
"Absolutely."
"I was really, really tired that night."
"No, you simply cannot admit that you used me and were not stalwart enough to apologize immediately."
"Is this why you haven't called me in three months?"
"I believe the phone works both ways," I say, and I wink at Terri, who grins from the blondest eyes downward.
"You were honestly that pissed?"
"You owe me apologies," I say, running my tongue against my upper-lip while smiling.

Terri, as well as Jason, a Californian buccaneer with a propensity toward all areas of That Kind of Music(tm), watch me saunter off with the cell-phone.

"I'm sorry?" says Dustin.
"That isn't good enough."
"I don't apologize often," he murmurs.
"You and your regurgitated Alpha Male demeanor may desire to do otherwise from this point onward," I say.
He pauses. "I'm sorry."

This continues ad nauseam, until I say, "You were like this perverted version of a step-brother."
"What, the one you have a thing for but can't necessarily do anything about?" he questions.
I snicker. "No," I state pragmatically, "the one that pisses you off severely, but because of the distance, you realize you don't have to necessarily deal with it."
"Oh."
"Some things never change, Dustin."
"Oh?"
"Yes," I say, "as you are still the king of insects."

--

Earlier this morning, with the exuberant-yet-perpetually-heart-torn Terri at my side, I decided to purchase a notebook for personal writing. I cannot remember the last time I needed tangible outlets. I have wasted inordinate amounts of time speculating, contemplating, theorizing, et al, in lieu of honestly doing anything about that over which I was initially pondering.

As I do so love having a form of release via Diaryland, while simultaneously entertaining or amusing others, how I'm currently feeling has been deemed too personal to publicize. Out of insane respect for the situation, it will not be shared. I do not sell others' secrets, despite what the media has proclaimed. The only secrets I wrestle are the ones I've ensconced about myself.

Also, I'm attempting to keep my personal life busy with the advent of school, and I doubt I'll have much time to construct the same, interminably jaded phrases upon which several have wiped their Steve Maddens.

Or, rather, I doubt I'll have much time to upload said phrases.

Or, really, I hope I have no time. Otherwise, this fucking Catholic guilt is never going to lift.

I've appreciated the ocular/textual support from all of you, throughout the asinine transitions I've experienced and the extremely immature decisions I've made in the past two and a half years.

--

time & machine