in a rare (ha!) moment of ego, i decided to leave this photo up a little longer... because it makes me feel sexy...



but methinks its time to update the rest.

dear online journal,

i wish i was better at knowing what to say to you... if i could just figure that out, then maybe i would be better at knowing what to say to everyone. its not even that i dont KNOW what to say, but i can never seem to find the words when i need them. and when i find them, theyre always so fucking hard to throw out there...

i need to talk to everyone and i dont know how to talk to anyone. its a dilly of a pickle.

i guess i have to start somewhere.


*


dear *****,

we fight like we're the dreaded * word. or the * word. both words whose meanings escape me, and words that terrify me when i try to fit them into the context of my life.

we fight without actually fighting, and ill be damned if that doesnt make it worse. that tension that rises between us, mounting until one of us utters the same phrase time and again...

"i hate fighting with you."

i left the room, stopping to open the jar on my bureau and muttering to myself before i grabbed my purse and my laptop and retreated into the stairwell. im not sure, but i think you grimaced when i reached for my *.

im * even as i write this.

you didnt follow me.


*


dear ***,

for several hours after a prolonged period of silence, you reappeared, thrusting yourself back into my life and bringing with you that familiar nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach.

that familiar heartache, that insecurity and that utter inability to make sense of the way i feel.

i told you something that i wonder if ill regret...

i dont think i regret it yet. but who am i to try to decipher my feelings? one thing in a series of things ive never been good at.

we * together, and i clung to you like i would never let you go...

but then you left like you always do, and i suffered the rest of the day in silence like i always do. i sometimes still wonder if it wouldnt be better to just shut you off...

but i cant. and to be honest, even if i could... i wouldnt.


*


dear *****,

i havent talked to you much this past week... not like im used to talking to you... which is to say, all... the... time. i cant make sense of my days, and time eludes me...

i worry that you think im mad, or worse, that you get a little more upset each day you dont hear from me...

im not okay; im sick and im tired, and my moments of contentment give way to a profound sadness i just cant seem to shake...

and im so tired of laying that all on you.

when i start to work things out, and can stand myself again, then ill subject you to me. but not before.


*


dear ***,

you left emoticons in my bed. a smile i sorely needed.


*


so here i sit, * and disoriented. im nodding out like crazy trying to write this, trying to remember vital information i might want to record... everytime i have something, i slip, rolling under a wave of unconsciousness only to jerk awake and find a paragraph composed entirely of d's.

i start to say something aloud, only to realize the person with whom i was conversing existed solely in my dream, which was only a fraction of a second itself.

this is a lonely place to sit.