oh no

is it clear to everyone that i have no identity? i'm not o-negative, that much we knew. everyone changes and i don't realize it until my relationships crumble and i end up reading old post from years ago and having it dawn on me that i loved who i was back then so much more. the way i wrote anyway. i basically stopped when i got to school here... i miss high school.

if i sit here and be quiet there are five sounds: the ocean waves break and roll through the door i left open. this contrasts the air conditioning that just clicked on. under that is the ticking of a wall-mounted clock. the television whines (you know it as soon as you walk into a room and then forget about it) and my computer's fan wheezes. i encourage anyone to do this. close your eyes late some night and count the sounds. i have trouble believing there are only five but unless i move, i can't find any more. five sounds...

i left the sliding door open because this entire room smells like dog piss. two of my grandmothers' (pl.) three dogs are basically incontinent. this makes for a huge pain in the ass. {thermostat ticks twice} this place used to be so clean and white and now it's just fading. i wouldn't mind terribly if all the dogs died and left us with clean houses. is that terrible to think? i actually wouldn't mind living here for a summer and working at this one particular coffee shop down in beaufort that i love so much. {air conditioner shuts off, clock grows louder} then i realize i can't this summer because i've got to find some summer school chemistry/bio to take before mcats next-next spring. {that life alert commercial just came on again. you know the one where the old woman falls in the middle of her room and stretches for the camera but can't reach it. i always laugh at that part. is that bad?} that one little coffee shop with the tin ceilings (not roofs). ceiling is an extremely odd word, if you look at it. very wierd/weird. the ocean is angry tonight, you can tell. i walked out there earlier today and there was approximately one person out there. then again, the fog has been so bad today... the courtyard outside by the pool looks like a scene from a horror movie. i looked out a little while back and almost saw the big dog/wolf thing from that 'lady in the water' movie i never saw. it almost ran out and killed me, i swear to you.

the water when we were driving home from here over thanksgiving, under the bridge, was spectacular. a blue i've never seen before.

i get these images of myself, ideas that i can't quite make happen. i buy clothes on the premise of how good they would look if i were on-stage playing music for people. usually this is on the mag quad like those shit bands they hire every now and then that five people end up sitting down listening to. and you can tell the lead singers are trying to forget that nobody's there because they look at the sky when they sing and never into the eyes of their five fans. i keep picturing myself as one of those guys. every time i hear a song i want to play or can somehow perform. or maybe i'm playing bass backing up a pianist. maybe i'm singing. i sing in the car a lot.

i just had a wonderful thought but i'll write a new post about it above.

i was reading around tonight looking for this particular post from about two years ago and there was one paragraph at the end of some rant that was shocking to read. stark and honest. i used to write when i wouldn't care who read it or i'd forget people could read it and it felt so much more uncensored than today. it was strange, though, because i really feel the same way. i write fiction a lot better now than then, though.

i would love to be an old black man. maybe not even old. maybe just black. maybe i just want to be black. it's like i'd have more confidence in myself or something. i have no idea. maybe i just want to be keb mo. or that guy from the biology department who served me during the love feast.

i think i have a slur sometimes. but i think that's ok if you're a singer because it sounds sweet. but i think it also makes you sound gay. but i think it's ok to be gay if you're a singer. i think i wouldn't mind it at all.

i closed the door and the blinds because the fog frightens me.

i like myself sometimes. but i also don't a lot of the time. there's a demon in the back of my head. i was hungry an hour and a half ago and i went to find a sausage (because it's the only food in the house) but the voice came and said "you don't NEED to eat that, it's late" and because i knew it was true, because i knew i would get fat if i did and kept doing it, because i knew the voice was right, i put the plate away and left. i hate that.

it's the same voice that loves blood.

{the sound of my computer thinking}

why won't you fucking talk to me? it's like we were never friends, never close like we were. remember three years ago? four? we could talk for hours and we did every night on and on because it was like we were the same person. and we had the stupidest problems and we fought and worked them out every single time. i had such a confidence back then because i knew, i just knew things would work out for us. and what, we would joke about marriage? marriage? are you kidding me? and you wanted dibs but you couldn't marry me because i'm not the same kind of fucked up christian you are. and i would get mad about that! am i fucking unbelievable or what? jesus, just because i don't believe christ was born on september 11. this wasn't supposed to happen, though.

remember when you moved away and you needed me? you needed me because you had no friends up there and i could be the invisible shoulder for you to lean on? back then i used to think you were a pretty and pretty cool girl and that it would do me good to try and stay friends with you and that if i did, maybe it would be a couple months. i remember because i stood in my bathroom looking out the window at the summertime outside. but it got wonderful. and then i had stupid issues with your stupid habits and we fought some more but always made up afterwards. and you would visit and it would be strange because i have honestly no idea how to treat you to your face and you're pretty much an awkward (doesn't look like it should have a first 'w', does it?) individual too.

and so then we "broke up", which is laughable today, to me, right now. and then you got a boyfriend which is just not ok. you started seeing some boy. i started seeing some girl. now you've been dating him for nine months and i haven't spoken to mine in six because she's a lying slut. this wasn't supposed to happen. this wasn't supposed to happen!

you're so happy. i can't fault you for that. i would love to be where you are. where the people don't suck and where i had someone to lean on. can i get by on seeing you once every two years? probably so, by now. why? because ever since our senior year of high school, things have been falling apart. and it's probably my fault and it damn well fucking is yours. you are too busy, i'm too lonely. you love your life too much to want to involve yourself in mine. i don't know if that's true at all. see, the thing is, when we were together (together?), when i was one half, it felt so much better because i didn't have to face the world alone. and if i stayed home it was ok. and if i didn't make out with people behind the pillars in the hall at lunch, that was ok too because i didn't have to. but now i don't have that and i'm alone and it's not because i have someone far away. it's because i'm alone.

so talk to me? i don't even know if i really want to you but it would scare me, i know that. i remember nights so long ago i would be away and set it so that the computer would mooooo really loudly when you came back. that noise still gives me chills, it always did. i would sit in front of the fire and line up the door exactly with the lamp across the room so that when i sat there, in the same spot, i could see if you'd left me messages in the reflection of the glass. i know it would scare me if that window popped up. it would be worse if you called. i never was good on the phone, but you never were either. always talking to someone else. you never paid me a lick of attention on the phone.

the first time i ever called someone on a cell phone that was mine, it was you. i set your speed dial number and pressed it as i was walking out of my yard. and i walked up and down the street talking. the phone got hot and yours did too.

i would stand on my back porch where the reception was good and describe the deer in my yard. you told me you would show me around new york city. i said i'd move there and we could share an apartment after we graduate. it's as bad an idea now as it was then. kind of like sharing an apartment in europe with the slut. i'm just full of them ;)

but i can see you sitting there. you've got better things to do. and i'm here, waiting. it's like you don't remember at all.