April 16th, 2005

33rd birthday

Last lingering thoughts before bed

Friday night and this week is finally over. I remember when August 1995 finally ended, I went out back to the alley behind Facets, took the "August 1995" sheet from my desk calendar, and lit the fucker on fire. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Of course we all know that that did little good; by the end of September 1995 I was starting on heroin, and well on my way to making a gigantic mess of my life. But it was a symbolic gesture of significance, and it stays with me still.

I have such love and awe for those rare individuals who show tenderness and compassion to my scars -- my literal scars. To Mothermoonbeam, when she painted the henna on my hand. To unixd0rk, who once told me how proud he was of me for all that I'd overcome. To n0thingman, who always had such acceptance for my indiscretions, both large and small.

I was looking at my scars this evening.

I once thought about getting tattoos over my scars (note: this is when I only had them on my arms, not my hands). My then-boyfriend said no, that I still needed the scars as they were. On Monday night, asleep in unixd0rk's bed, I had a dream that I got a new tattoo. I don't think I shared this dream with him or with anyone, as Tuesday morning, everything went to Hell and that kind of preempted everything else. But I'm sharing it now. Black ink, in a design that I can't quite recall, on the upper right side of my back. Upon waking, I wondered if it was time. I got my nose pierced for the second time in the fall of 1999, when I was having some sort of fight with n0thingman, because I realized that I had had a dream the night before that I had two noserings. This was my very last body modification, if anyone out there is keeping track.

Tonight when I got home, I printed out all of my LiveJournal stuff from this past week and taped it into my paper journal, in large part because I'd managed to write so very little about last night, and I didn't want to forget that experience. I have about a dozen pages left in this notebook, and I feel pretty ready to be done with it. It's hard -- I'm ready for the clean slate that a new journal will offer (Susan started the next one in my pile, and I'm glad for that -- I'm a big fan of hers), but I'm also somewhat sad because there really were a lot of happy moments in this current journal.

I wanted to share one in particular, a bit bittersweet now, but it's been rattling around in my head:

Two Saturdays ago (I think), driving around with unixd0rk after having had lunch with n0thingman at Quiet Storm. We'd stopped at Kohli's for henna (which we've still never used) and food, and, as I drove, he fed me samosas. It's a tiny glimpse, a moment, but one that stands out as a time that I felt really happy.

The joy of life is slowly starting to return to me, I think. Tonight at work I danced a little, I sang a little. "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes," which for years made me think of _aqualung_, tonight made me think of unixd0rk, and it made me kind of wistful.

Also tonight at work, our security guard, Tim, busted a shoplifter. It was a total floorshow. I was outside, eating dinner, talking with Vema, and out comes this man, with Tim right behind him. Next thing we know, the man takes off running, and Tim goes right after him, yelling for him to stop. They were running through the street and yes, there was traffic -- they both nearly got clipped by one car in particular -- but before the man even reached the corner, Tim had him cornered against a wall. The man swung at Tim, and Tim responded by spraying him with mace. Got him down, got him cuffed, and took him inside, and all with Co-op shoppers just standing there with their jaws hanging open.

And that's it, I suppose. Tomorrow I have plans with n0thingman, and then Sunday is MAD Day at The Co-op, which is always a guaranteed distraction from everything else in life. I have one cigarette left in this pack, and we'll see if tomorrow I'm able to repost that quitmeter, and start it back at zero.

And then next Sunday ... well, next Sunday is the fifteen year anniversary of my accident. I'm already sort of working up a post on that inside my brain. Many of you know the story; some still don't. I'll see how well I do at explaining the ways in which that day divided my life into "Before" and "After."
Me pink

Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah

Well, it's morning again. I talked to n0thingman a little while ago, and he's feeling all hungover and crappy, so maybe we're not going to get together until later. I was still in bed when he called, and somehow it got to the topic of me and unixd0rk, and I commented that this was the first Saturday I'd spent without him since ... well, since I'm not exactly sure when. I think since that "he kissed me" post when he had to drive to Johnstown at 8:00 the next morning.

Have I told you the thing that I did on Monday that made me feel so incredibly stupid? I don't think I have. Monday day, before this all happened, I had gone to Squirrel Hill to pick up yet another roll of film, mostly containing pictures of him. There was one picture from the previous roll that I especially loved (and one or two from the new roll that I was pretty fond of), so I shopped around a bit and found two picture frames -- figured it was about time I put a framed picture of unixd0rk on display in my home. Anyway, right after I bought the frames, I ran into Ramon, and we went to The Squirrel Cage, and the time kind of got away from me ... unixd0rk and I had plans that evening to go see Hella at 8:00 pm, so after leaving Ramon, I didn't really have a lot of time to dick around at home ... I just kind of dropped off my stuff and left.

Of course Monday night I spent the night at unixd0rk's house, and Tuesday morning all Hell broke loose. I dropped him off at work, bought a pack of cigarettes, smoked one of those cigarettes, then went to the liquor store, then came home. And as I crawled into my apartment, what should I find sitting out on the coffee table but those damn picture frames, sitting there, chiding me: "Ha ha. Hey hopita, how stupid are you? Remember when you were in love, like, yesterday? Man, you are such a giant dummy ..."

I swear ... in all that drama I'd totally forgotten I'd even bought the damn things. They're still in the bag, still sitting on that table, and I have no clue what the fuck to do with them now. Put up pictures of him anyway? Smash them to little pieces? See if I can get my money back? Who knows. I just keep piling newspapers and trash on top of them and hoping that they'll stop taunting me one of these days.

QuitMeter Counter courtesy of www.quitmeter.com.
Me pink

Peaches and urine

Oh my stars, it's actually true, what I said. Thirteen hours without a cigarette, and I've just started crying again ... and over the stupidest thing. I've got nothing to do so I was sitting here, watching all the TV shows that I taped but never watched because I was too busy being at his house and being all happy. I was watching "Judging Amy," the episode that aired two or three weeks ago. I actually caught the tail end of that episode at his house -- just the last five minutes or so -- sitting on his bed with him and Shane. I remember it because of a joke Tyne Daly made, about patchouli smelling like the bus station, like "peaches and urine." And she said that line, that stupid, stupid line, and I just burst out crying, and now I can't seem to stop.

My back is in spasms and I've eaten all the peanut ginger chews and my baby brother called to tell me that he moved to Pittsburgh two days ago. And all I want to do is curl up into a little ball and just keep crying.
Me pink

pallid landscapes of my frown

Miss Prissy Pants called. He sent me an email this morning asking if I was "still all fabulously bouncy and in love." I told him "no," and that he should read my LiveJournal if he wanted the details. He read it, and then he called me. He said he was sorry. He said he didn't want to rub it in, but that he'd never seen me as happy as I was when he saw me last week (and, as someone who's known me for nearly twenty years now, "never" actually is a mighty long time ...). He also said that he completely understood what I was talking about when I described that seizure-like thing that I went through on Thursday night.

So I'm still watching TV, and still waiting for n0thingman to wake up and feel better, and still crying on top of it all. Little things, little thoughts, seem to send me over the edge today. Like these roses we have at work. They're all open and no one should buy them now -- they'll be dead soon -- but every time I walk past them I have to smell them ... I remember working on Valentine's Day, and wondering if some regular customer would do something sweet like buy a bunch of flowers and give each of the workers one of them. For the record, no one did. And I stop and I smell those roses and I wonder: when was the last time someone gave me roses? The 1990s, I'm pretty sure of that (unless you count the chocolate rose that n0thingman stole from the frat boys once upon a time, although that may've actually been in 1999, so same difference).

This post doesn't even really mean much of anything. Just more of me being sad and lonely, I suppose. Actually, I told Miss Prissy Pants that, more than anything else, I felt exhausted right now. It's pretty true. He said depression can take a lot out of you, which is also pretty true. But I just feel mentally, physically, and spiritually exhausted. Just fucking beat.