2004-03-12 - 4:39 a.m. - dishes piled as high as your wishes go in the sky.
so heres the deal. i've been somewhat fixed on two ideas lately. not even ideas. two metaphors. ghosts and dishes. ghosts is easy. straight forward. you don't even have to try. but dishes. why dishes? because dishes that pile up in sinks are unfinished business too (just like the ghosts have), are things that need to be done but aren't. dishes are the details that we avoid until we can't anymore, and we can't anymore it gets ugly. you puke in doughnut shop bathrooms then splash your face with water because thats what you think people who freak out and puke in doughnut shop bathrooms are supposed to do right? at least thats what they would do in the movies, right? you sit by yourself and just think about all of the ways that you need to change your life so that it means something to you and not just people around you. and sure, you wrote two drafts of a novel, but what does it fucking mean? what's the fucking point? its a piece of shit, and you know it and you can't even get your fucking friends to read it, why would anyone else bother. and so you just sit there and think about teaching. and think about moving. and think about trying to get back to some sense of purity, some sense of something being beautiful in your life and not being so afraid to put your heart out on the line. because what does it fucking matter if that girl you really, really care about cares about you just not quite in the same way or whatever. and what does it fucking matter that that other girl from your past made an appearance not long ago and was gone just as fast because even though you think about her still, afterall this time--why, oh why, oh why--you know it could never work because your a piece of shit and she's a rocket into the sky of her own future. you wonder why she even bothered to talk to you again. why you wanted to see her one last time. and it will be the last time, no? face it, kid. you're hopelessly naive in tricking yourself into thinking anything that good could ever work out for you. just keep looking. but why even bother looking. its not even worth thinking about and so you sit at the other end of the doughnut shop from your friends, staring at a bottle of water (emptying with your thirst), making a list of all the ways that your life needs to change. that you need to change. and you think about what jenn said to you. that if you just keep being the same good person and do what you want to do that something will work out. that maybe everything will work out. and you want to believe her so badly but you've acquired this track record of nothing ever really working out. honesty. sincerity. caring. these things have gotten you nothing. you're twenty four years old and you work in a fucking bookstore. you live with your fucking parents. and you realize that change is neccessary. you realize this because you are shaking and you know you are going to vomit at any moment. because you do not know what it feels like to break down, but you know that this is probably the closest you've ever been.so then in the car on the way home you listen to that saturday looks good to me record you love. and while you type this you listen to that archived flashpapr webcast with so many of the new (old) songs they have not released yet on it. you notice your back is tense and tight and your eyes are burning.
and you just want to go to bed.
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