Lolita is Back

I am at the library and it is cold and rainy outside and I have a sunburn on my left ear and the left side of my neck because I changed my mind and put my hair up at the last minute and sat outside in the sun all day on Sunday.

My ear huuuurts and my neck looks like someone tried to strangle me.  Or rope burn, it looks like rope burn.

Fitting.

I can’t wait to see this…Yaaaay Music Box!

I wish I had some kind of drug to keep me focused at every waking second of the day.  I also wish I did not have a shitty part time job.  I also wish I could hold on to some kind of feeling of accomplishment that I had not too long ago…but I guess it’s best not to have that all of the time, because then you’d just–stop.

I’m at the library because I went looking for Kyle Beachy’s novel.  Every copy is overdue.  I don’t know why I want to read it, but I want to read it.

I walk around with this overwhelming feeling that he’s going to jump out from behind trash cans, from around corners, pop out of moving cars, or just lean out a window and scream at me.  “IIIIIDIIIIOOOOOT!!!”

He apologized to me, I know, and our conversation was one of those things that makes me feel really good for a few days, like maybe people aren’t the assholes I usually make them out to be.  He said some very nice, encouraging things.  The fact that we shook hands and put everything down was really nice, and while it made me wrong about him, I didn’t mind so much.

Somehow, in my mind he’s become the mascot for all of my failures.  It’s his picture in my head that’s telling me I’m an idiot, it’s his voice making a list of all of the ways I suck.  It’s worse in this gray and shitty and most un-summery weather, with this downward spiral of crap I began on August 26, 2008, and continue to this very day.  I had this dream where we were sitting at the kitchen table, and I was telling him about everything that’s happened since that day, and he laughed like I was a silly kid who’d gotten sand in her pants.

I take full responsibility.  I know it’s all me.  This is nothing he’s done, and he was probably right on track when he called me an idiot.  I am never at my most intelligent when I am interacting with men.  I’m cold and flippant and rude, especially at first.

So, I mean, I know it’s my fault that every time I see a guy with a dog on Logan Boulevard, I am almost certain it’s him, and he’s going to tell me to give up.  I know it’s my fault that his face is over my shoulder while I work, telling me that every word is pointless, meaningless, heartless shit.

Whyyyy does that face have to look so good?

Oh, I know.  My psyche is telling me to go fuck myself.

Dan Savage today:

“If it’s a penis enough to make me happy, it’s a penis enough for the both of us.”

(That was an unrelated note.  I swear.)