i'm back from outer space

i'm facing it. i have not been productive this semester at all. i didn't study and all this reading, well i'm soaring through it in a week because for some reason i care about my grades. saving face for parents and friends and faceless figures in the hierarchy of my bright and blinding future. grades, all pure luck this time around. i haven't slept more than four hours on a week night in more than a month, i don't mind if my lip gloss or mind is askew. i go to the gym 3 days a week instead of my admirable five days of first semester.

my weight is stagnant. i half-assed it all this time around. i'm carbed up, screwed over, in denial, and i'm not even going downhill. i am maintaining and i have to wonder if maintaining is worse then being stuck in the bottom of the ditch. at the lowest level a person wants to rise up above the degredation. but when the said being is midfield? it's not so awful not so perfect but not so bad. there are plenty of losers below me with faultering GPA's, and scholarships in jeopardy and failing relationships. i'm alright but.

i have done nothing this semester. it's good though that there is only this one week left, because i can feel it all falling apart, collapsing from the inside out. i can feel me giving way to the feelings of anxiety and apathy or empathy that i have ignored since february. i can feel myself shaking up. sleepless nights and out of town trips before finals and people with issues so falsely severe all in my face.

one week. 2 weeks and i'd be hard pressed to scrape by.

This is fucking ridiculous. I needed to go to history today.
So now my mom has to drive my crippled ass to british literature, and I feel bad burdening her with this.

What am I doing considering calling you at 9:15/6:15am. I don't know how I got on this kick, but I sat here for a good 10 minutes with your number dialed in, debating. I didn't. it's a good thing too, for your sake and mine. Your day would've been plagued with thoughts of me. Mixing with the wires.

I need ice, tape, ibuprofen, love.

I keep thinking about the chaos theory.

...i'm this highly volatile person. at dinner you told me we're going to pennsylvania on sunday, the day before my finals, because she is having surgery and she might die. and it's before my finals, she might die. she might die on a tuesday in may while i'm in history writing an essay on the significance of the korean war. and you will be there, mother, with her and the korean war won't matter. what are we going to do. me here and you there, and the rest of this family. what about her house? what about christmas, and the town and that part of our lives. are you going to buy it, or knock it down and wouldn't it be weird to be there without her, but i bet she thought that when he died. the whole town would go to the funeral. you would want me to write something, i know you. and i would but would i cry? could i cry at a funeral? just what would i write. this is the difference between shit and life. i am awful and i am a deviant of this family, i am so sorry. i should be going to church and getting a 4.0 instead of a 3.6. i should really be calling her more often and i should have never fought with her. i'm truly sorry for who i've grown into, and every inch of rebellion i've thrown on the path. i should've been a better kid.

i called her on valentine's day and i was drinking a fucking martini.
i love you.

you don't want to know me right now. i'm this highly volatile person. -

same hold from the same hands
five years strong
many times over and gone
it's everything that i have to beat bridges much stronger and wide
fewer and farther between we meet again
i'll try to do well on my own
distance between's never been this far
i realize that this time was something that i always knew
only a fool wouldn't see
might as well start my drinking days now if i'm really alone
it's tempting
am i asking too much to keep you at arms length?
am i asking too much to keep you at home?
please don't go
i know it's all gonna be fine and i know that this is what's right

who says no to a proposition. certainly not i.
not when it involves a certain derrick who is most certainly attractive.
no strings attached.
well, i don't think i can do it, and no i don't know why i can't.
there are perhaps only a handful of people on this earth that i could casually hook up with.
of those handful, i have met 2.
no sex for me. not today.

between the ages of fourteen to eighteen, you broke it multiple times. in fact, i can chronicle my high school years based on the holes you carved in my chest. the last time i saw you act like this / we were kids.

my over dramatic side at ease, i hope you know - this is just the difference between fact and fiction.

you came here when you were fooling around with her. you came here and were a coward. so, thank you, for watching tv for nine hours every day and ignoring me. for making me cry in public at the boston beanery. for making me cry. for saying "I can't deal with you crying." for refusing to talk to me. for treating me WORSE than some random napa slut you would only use for sex, by not even kissing me. for having no patience. for criticizing my fucking lip gloss, for not liking the way i dressed because my clothes actually cover my tits and ass, for slamming me into the wall when i was drunk, for calling me a 'stupid fucking bitch' when i was drunk, for lying - in every way but the obvious, for being condescending to my friends, for being so harsh and so rough, for smacking my ass, for comparing me to holly, for telling me i looked 16 repeatedly, for complaining about everything, for saying "fuck" to my mother at dinner, for looking into my eyes in a hotel bed at 4am the day you were leaving and saying with the most false sense of sincerity - "you have chronic bad breath." thank you for taking the easy way out and being the asshole. you never could handle living up to who you could be or what you need to be. or even what you want to be.

THANK YOU for not saying THANK YOU. thank you for the apology i'll never get. Thank you very much, Thomas Adam Lynch.

i'll never forget what you said, the night before you left, when we were in the bathroom. I was looking at you, I was looking at the tiles.
"Are you going to be sad when I leave?"
and then
"Are you happy?"

falling in love feels almost exactly the same as falling out of it.

Yesterday Erik and I baked a dinosaur shaped pastry. It was excellent.
Yesterday I was having an allergy attack and Erik drove over and brought me allergy meds because he is a very rad boy.
And then my day got better, because we baked a dinosaur pastry.

Yesterday Erik put on my pants.
And my underwear, and the way his yes!-yes! spot threatened to tear through the delicate spandex was obscene. and i had my underwear on!
In fact, the nerdy boys studying chem in the lounge were absolutely shocked and awed and HUMBLED by my exposed butt cheeks!
And we went cavorting in our undies through the dorm and across town with our wonderfully tall friend Caity Frail, who has much extra skin on her elbows!
Oh, and a good time was had by all!
Our panty-clad selves delivered the dinosaur cake to a very gay Zach. In fact, he put the MAN in MANatee!
Many pictures were taken.

This week has been resurrected.
HOSPICE THRIFT STORE RIOT!

the insomnia doesn't rest anymore. so here i am, there i lay. can't sleep, forget to eat.
i'm a wreck. this week ranks in the top twelve or so worst weeks of my short life.
allergies, head is exploding. 64% - lowest grade of the semester - on my history test. drunk guys pissing on my door. 9 page papers. faulty alarms and sleeping halfway through class. scheduling problems. School of Journalism's anal retentive tendencies. waiting.

the insomnia doesn't break. it was a one day a month endeavor before, but now it's here to stay it seems. it would die out, but it's going now, two weeks strong. only breaking one day because of illegal drug use. but now it's not breaking, and my eyes are red. Nyquil? sleep is easier when something is at arms length.

at least i could sleep at night when we still talked.
but that was more monotonous and unweilding. that was shit.
still,
i equate sleep with love i think. i am not in love.
i can only touch a handful of people anymore without wanting to curl back into a ball.
when people touch me, it feels like cars colliding.
i want to be held by specified arms alone.

arms length.

NOTE TO ALL DRUNKEN MALES that whore themselves to the sluts of Dadisman Hall 4th floor center:

Before pissing on a random door at the request of a whore you should make sure that a) the person/persons living inside are not light sleepers, b) that you don't come back to piss on it a second time after the inhabitants of the said room have risen and c) that one of the people residing in the room isn't a fucking psychotic brunette who just had the worst day of her life, and who is ready to get fucking ghetto on your ass.

because - THE SAID PSYCHO BRUNETTE MIGHT JUST SWING THE DOOR OPEN WHILE YOUR DICK IS OUT AND WINDEX YOU IN THE FUCKING EYES WHILE CHASING YOU DOWN THE HALL LIKE A FUCKING RABID DOG CHASES A RETARD WITH LEG BRACES. AND YOU MIGHT JUST FALL OVER BECAUSE YOUR DRUNK AS FUCK AND SHE MIGHT SPRAY YOUR BURNING, BURNING EYES MULTIPLE TIMES AGAIN WITH GREAT ABANDON.

you won't be back. this i know for sure. i hope your eyes burn for a week.
don't fuck with us anymore, this isn't first semester.

don't doubt my level of mental unrest.
next time i'm taking your genitals with my bare hands.

so everything will be fine starting here with time and distance. i'll give you a christmas card, and let you know who i am and what i'm becoming. i'll detail the finer points of my life and leave out the parts involving chemicals.

happy easter. when i have money, a lot of it, i'll buy you better head stones and visit more frequently. i'm sorry all we left were palms.

things felt happier and healthier. all that saris chocolate? i ate the bunnies head.

geology test. 94
pol sci. test. B

history test tomorrow.

excerpts from bri's paper journal, book 4, c.april, may, june 2003

"...one day i'll feel as adored as the cracker in your mouth.
maybe you'll consent to being my cracker, double frosted.
maybe we'll have animal cracker sex-
the good kind...

this makes me feel like alice in wonderland."

"So please, lets play bad Sinatra at my wedding. People will show up in easy access cocktail dresses and the reddest lipstick. Male attendees will accessorize with cigars. We will drink martinis and tongue the olives. We will talk about nothing in particular. It will feel like America before urban decay. It will feel like we're not in America. It will be a good feeling. We'll get smashed with the best of intentions; no intentions at all... Strangers in the night?"

"...i wanted to start crying and i wanted him to hold me. but he just stands there with his arms around me, looking beautiful. and closed. and dismembered from me. so there i stood staring at the bare wall between all the matted art, and i listened intently and not at all to all of his insightful, mocking comments about symbolism between angel wings and maple leaves and neon rays of fucking sunlight and i felt more alone than i had the rest of the day. in this crowded room. even in my agnosticism, i wondered what god was thinking when he made life so sad..."

"...after prom was none-too-amazing. i witnessed Al and erik smoke a strawberry cigar with ezra and i was fairly disheartened. i don't know, i'm unapologetic about it. where does smoking a cigar with ezra factor into the advance of one's life? it's certainly not saving the whales...

...the guest room is an oddity. it has this wallowing factor. when you're in it, you can feel it ache. you could crowd the walls with 10,000 warm bodies and it would still feel vacant...

...and this reminded me of the word 'dreamy' and the people who say it. and when each name was spoken, when each of our lips had passed the last syllable, it was dreamy in a backwards brady bunch sort of way. maybe i'm the molly ringwold after all..."

"...i guess it's all mechanical when you break it down. the mechanics of breathing and being fake. the mechanics of sex and extreme coupon clipping. and love even. the mechanics of mechanics. everything is so dulled and unsalted because of the first five years of my own existence. expectations placed too high, plummeting to the ground..."

"...i internalize things far too much. in this life, right now, i am okay. i am fairly contented. i am happy a large percentage of the time. but but but. everything about this okay, contented, happy revolving door is mediocre..."

"BROKEN JAW;BROKEN HEART. there, i wrote it. maybe i'll sleep better. sometimes all i want is to feel even more hollow, your fucking cadaver. oh won't you explore the textures and triumphs of my heart and cerebellum with a grapfruit spoon. 3:13PM smack in the face. June 2."

"...memorializing all of you. the friends, the lovers, the loss of these things. that fake plastic food i used to play with as a kid. i remembered it only from my inner five year olds perception until 10th grade health class when some greasy looking grad student used it to demonstrate portion sizes, with plastictastic fries and donuts. the once glorified memory of my frugal gourmet is now tainted forever. this experience can be equated to my growing up in general..."

"...i'm not playing the victim. i'm just trying to deal with the inevitable in advance."

Apr 10. 2004
don't worry, i'll catch you
don't worry, i'll catch you
don't ever worry.

[i could say this to the whole world daily. but when i do i mean it. my lungs hurt.
the last time we meet, the last time i'll feel you breathe? well, it would make sense.
you'll never feel like home again.]

Impossible that I am a firmi liar that u speak of
I pick the grapes and hang the drapes. You were the muse of a time poorly spent and a heart well-kept and wracked and tacked on the back of a u-haul. U haul. U holly.

Oh Christ on a chowder cracker. It doesn't matter. The pots are stacked and packed on the stove and my eyes are shiny and lively without trying. Wow oh a woah of hope, this is turning up and down. I am a ball of short sleep and coffee creamer. I am tall, fond of sheep and my revolver.

One by one by seventeen, we're coming clean
Baseball or five foot nine. i still want your sweater.
Hockey and locking, the vault of this 4 chamebered cardioWHAT
Or the lips of this flesh faithful face or the pink of the path
A bath for the disastrous . not me.
I'm youth in a bottle. I'm youth on the bottom

It's just a little hot.
kosher.

oh oh oh.
studying does not exist, when it coincides with my thoughts of more important matter.
i am worthless to these books when i can't equate my heart to a metamorphic rock. although, i could.
i would much rather curl into a ball and listen to the cure and put lotion on my legs.
motion on my legs.

who ever thought i would be me. whoever thought i'd end up writing, and majoring in this field of headlines and bylines and deadlines. i don't really want to be a journalist. i'd much rather criticize politicians and our government through highly pretentious and decorated speech. that's okay - some day.

who ever thought i'd be the me without the you, or a me with a you. i never thought. high school ends, and we stop being in love with everyone and everything or nothing and we are in love and we are undecided in rank and routine and being. time is a battlefield. who knows why these leaves change color. no one. i walk the sidewalks and cold nights and six flights alone with bags and books and breath. you do not assist. no one.

my breasts are perky. my words will be a firm fist to your jaw. my demographics may be flawed. who ever thought.

[B+ on the dreaded Aurora Leigh paper courtesy of Komisaruk. I swoon much too easily lately. Innocently and for the right things. Excuse me while i reclaim my life ages 14 to 17. I am an apostle of a youth too lightly passed over. I am chewing 3 pieces of gum at one time. I am leaving my hair disheveled. Lemonade and reading rainbow and me. and me.]

Me.