he left me when we were kids.
i was 19 and he was 21 at the time when the affair had started. mere children. shortly after i had turned 20, the man who i had thought was the one i was going to marry me, was planning on marrying someone else.
for a decade he has haunted me.
i moved as far away as possible and yet i still see him nearly everywhere i go. one day i was having lunch with a friend and I had thought I had seen him and his wife walking by us, leaving the restaurant. i was three thousand miles from home and i think this is him.
it wasn’t, obviously, he.
it wasn’t me he had wanted, it was her. it wasn’t him at the restaurant, it was someone else. but seeing or thinking i saw him was enough, if even for that briefest of seconds.
when he and i lived in the same city, i used to see him occasionally around town. driving down the street, going into clubs, seeing him in stores. he was always alone and she was never around.
when he had broken up with me, i was devastated. with him, i was everything i thought i could be. i was loved and loving. old and young. pure and a whore. he made possible everything in my heart that had know even known existed or was too scared to show. my own sensual and sexual identities were pushed forward and ripped apart when he was around.
i thought he was the one. i thought we were going to get married.
this to me was love.
it was christmas 1992. I was wearing some paisley/floral type dress i had purchased for the informal christmas party that was being held at his brothers place. i remember watching his brother and his wife and thinking ‘this is what i want. i want to marry him and bear him children and we can have this fantastic life together’. i truly believed that. i envied his brother and adored his sister- in-law. his nephews were not that much younger than we were at the time. I remember us leaving and holding the jewelry box they had given me for christmas that year. his mother had given me a ring that belonged to her mother several months prior to all of this. i think they thought that i was the one, and i wasn’t. i do not know what happened to the jewelry box. the ring i kept and have lost it along the years.
Month: June 2002
harder, better, faster, stronger
on-line right now talking to some stranger in seattle, my brother in michigan and my high-school sweetheart who happens to now reside in Portland, OR. As I had stated in my livejournal, the past is falling out of the woodwork. First Josh and now Aaron.
I’ve been pacing myself outside myself recently to see what I was really like, you know, to everyone else. I used to think that I was unphotogenic but due to the recent rash of pictures that have surfaced, that little line will have to go back. So I look at these pictures and what I see and what I think I am and how
people perceive me are obviously three different things. I didn’t like the young woman in the images I saw. I didn’t like the poses or the facial expressions. I thought i was seeing a fat ugly whore. really. I’m not saying that to be negative but I am saying that to be true – at least to me. Now friends, friends say different things. They always have, but I don’t feel like I am a hot piece of ass. Now Alisha, she’s a hot piece of ass. She just oozes sensual and sex. Me on the other hand do not and I wish I did. And then the there is the opinion of me by me when I see myself in mirrors and what not. Depending on the view, I do think of myself as a hot piece of ass.
Infatuated with a lunatic and cornered by the muse
I’ll warn you, if cornered, I’ll scratch my way out of the pen
Wired, an animal
The claustrophobia begins
You think I’m scared of girls
Well maybe
But I’m not afraid of you
You want to scare me then you’ll cling to me no matter what I do
Tell you a secret
They shared a needle once or twice
I loved her, she loved me
We slept together a couple of times
You think I’m proud of this
Well maybe
But the shame you never lose
Infatuated with a lunatic and cornered by the muse
And it goes down every night
This must be what jail is really like
And I will scratch my way out of this pen, again
Lonely?
Maybe
Or maybe not
It all depends
Your ideal, your image
Your definition of a friend
If what you’re shoveling is company
Then I’d rather be alone
Resentment always goes much further than it was supposed to go
what jail is like by afghan whigs
I don’t know what has been my deal lately with Afghan Whigs, especially Greg Dulli. This is the second night in a row that I’ve been sitting here listening to various mp3s that I have spanning nearly their whole career. I felt like, to be honest, my whole life of emotion listening to their music. I felt pain, sorrow, pity, fear, love.
What was worse (or cute if you are into that sort of thing) is that on the way into work today, I was bopping along to them in the car cranked up and car dancing. I’m a wonderful car dancer BY FAR. Which brings me to this past saturday night: so there is this live band playing at my party, which is total coincidence. I won’t mention the details but in short those in my party were COMPLAINING about the loud music. Hell even paul acts like an old man when it comes to listening to music. The car stereo can’t be above x or else he pitches a fit. Home stereo is the same thing. Right now I’ve got head phones on so I can enjoy the sultry tones of that which is Greg Dulli.
It’s not really a choice of music but when I listen to tunes I want to feel like I’m either at a show, being sung to, being fucked while at the show or feel like i’m being possessed. I want to feel ALIVE when i listen to music, not this pamby ass shit that they pass for music these days. pfft on that.
let me in, i’m cold. all dressed up and no where to go.
Today was the grandiose day that I had to go to Anger Management training, and to be truthful, i thought (and expected) it to be a joke. The joke it turns out, was on me.
I hate these interpersonal training classes they give at work. For the most part, they are always taught by undereducated fuckwits who keep it boring and snoozefest. So yes, I was pleasantly suprised when we actually had someone teach the class who held a doctrate and worked in the field of mental health and has been teaching this for years! Woah. Impressive. Makes me wonder what WCOM does sometimes with its few brain cells.
when we two parted
it starts out with an obsession.
it always does.
it starts out with Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. I was in desperate and determined need to get their new cd. Which turns out is not really new, it’s two years old but you know the music biz, what is new last year is not necessarily fresh at the time. So i hunt and hunt for the damn thing and can’t find it. I don’t want to buy it online because i want instant gratification of having it in my hot little hands asap.
i end up finding it at barnes and noble of all places, hidden at the back of the ‘b’ bin. i grab it greedily, somehow expecting that someone else wants it (well considering everywhere else it was gone …). I walked around and then took it up to the semi-cute cashier who kept raving about the greatness of said cd. I nodded in agreement and toyed with buying some remix cd of Verve singles and passed on it. I got into the car and put the cd in and shivered in delight. turns out i knew BRMC from several other songs other than the one i had originally bought them for.
I keep playing the cd over and over. I take it into work where I speak to cute-guy-at-work (who, btw, dissed me on my birthday for a concert, but i digress) and get him to listen to the said cd. He then starts raving about it and then I kick myself in the proverbial ass because BRMC has been to DC TWICE.
thirty
I’ve been watching the clock all day. Waiting for midnight, which will be in about 20 minutes, because I will be saying goodbye to my 20s forever. I have become, pathetically morbid about this particular birthday. Something, about the age, is grating on me and I cannot tell or say for sure what it is. I keep hearing from women in their 30s+ that the 30s were the perfect time of their life. Still young and youthful but not stupid and cocksure. The ages of 30-35 seemed to be the golden age for a woman because she knows what she wants and how to get it.
Personally I have not figured out why my obsession with my age is so frantic, but it is. I’ve been swapping between moping and careening about this day. Some say I should just grow the fuck up and deal with it and personally, like I always say, I wish I could agree with them and do said growing the fuck up but you’ll find (as I find) that what we are being told to do is not as easy as it seems. I’m still waiting for the answers and the tellings that people keep saying and yet these same said people will open and fornicate with their mouths but yet the fornication is dry and cheap.
Sometimes I love my euphemisms. I thought I had alliterated (no such word) but thanks to m-w.com, I found out I was wrong.
10 minutes.
midnight means nothing. If you want to get pedantic about it, i was actually born in the afternoon — 4 something on June 12, 1972. It was rainy, muggy and humid. My father left my mother on the corner by the hospital when she was in labor and she didn’t see him until three days later. I often wonder if my mother feels guilt or love or something about my father, even though they had been divorced for over 25 years at his death. I cannot be the only adult in history who feels like a bus ran them over since their father has died. The other thing that kills me is that my birthday always falls around Fathers Day and for the last three years I have been furious at all the e-mail I have received via direct marketing for said holiday. I want to call up Amazon.com, Cdnow.com, bestbuy.com and the rest of the lot and strangle them for being so insensitive. I wish you could opt-out of certain marketing advertising because of whatever.
In five minutes I will die, I want you to know that.
When you hit 30, you think you’ll have x amount of stuff done with your life. You’ll have finished college. Gotten a job with a firm you wanted to work for. Get married and spawn brats. Have the dogs and the whole nine yards. At 25 I bemoaned the loss of my youth and laughingly, I can recall feeling the same way then as I do know. Sitting in a BART station with Christian and yet feeling like my life had gone to complete and utter shit. That no one, no one would ever fucking love me the way I want(ed) to be loved. I remember thinking that Christian did not love me and I was right, while the location and names have changed, it’s still the same damn fucking story.
In three minutes I will implode.
Five years is a long time. A very long time. I have moved cross- country twice, been in a few relationships. I basically lived.
BOOM. I blew up.
Five years ago, if you would have asked me where I was going to be when I was 30, i certainly would not have said in the ‘burbs of Washington DC, on a flaming red/pink duvet anxiously watching three clocks for the stroke of midnight.
I’ve been accused of being whiny about this birthday — and I think I have every right to be whiny. The thing is, is that I’m tired of people who harangue me about turning 30 (or basically feel that it’s their due to tell me that my ovaries are getting crusty) and are not supplying any real answers.
the bottom line is this:
I do not feel that I particularly smart or gifted or special. I am not fishing for compliments, I am just being honest with myself. But there is something in me, in my core that doesn’t seem to agree with normal day to day life. At work I want to rip my hair out because I am so bored and the job seems to be tedious. The thought of what I do on a daily basis makes me cringe when I realise how menial it sounds. Everything from washing clothes to taking a shower seems to be beneath me. I cannot comprehend day to day life for another fourty years, I will kill myself if it is like this. I feel bored, in a rut and itching to get into mischief. The sheer fact that to share this with another person and to make this the basis of a relationship? Seems laughable and pitiful, at best. Something is wrong and I’m aware but at the same token a little voice in the back of my head keeps saying ‘waht if you are right and they were all wrong’.
I keep telling people that I am waiting for something. I do not know what I am waiting for but I am waiting for something and it will be soon. When that happens, you will all see what I finally mean.
Happy 30th Birthday to me.
Wednesday June 12 2002 — 00:30 -04:00
x0x0x
ps: it was suggested that on saturday for my party the theme be a ‘death party’. i thought that was a terrific idea until I was later told that it was too morbid or perverse. They have no sense of humour