Break Down, Honey, Take Me Through the Night
I hope mom buys me a bedazzler for Christmas.
J is preoccupied with weight-gain from fatty-foods: he cracks down on any eating of frech-fries or potato chips.
Some days I sit alone all day and barely complete a fraction of what my intentions were for the day.
I drag myself with a pain in my head and my chest.
Some days I long for a breakdown: but I never breakdown.
I never burst into tears.
Sometimes I drink when I'm sad just so that I can start crying.
I'm not sad today, particularly, but there was a definite cloud of numbness that wafted across my senses like the hum of a neon light. My thoughts are tedious to me. They come with difficulty. They stick in my head like raisins in granola: impervious and incongruous, conspicuous and arbitrary.
If I could just cry I'd feel better. But I know why I cannot cry, and that's the only thing he's still got on me. I had to freeze my heart to prove to the man I loved that I wanted more than he had to offer. It worked. He couldn't make me budge. I was hard as a rock. It crushed him, and he left, and I haven't had a the ability to break down in three and a half years.
Tragedy. Horror. God. Weddings. Some things make me cry.
Not the need for purification, though. I just need the cleansing.
On a lighter note, I made the perfect song list today, for a mixed cd, and I'm hoping to make it when I'm at mom's house. Some of you will get a copy, if everything goes according to plan.
The only thing that comes out of a full moon that's of any use is a good music compilation.
I must now add that after watching my beloved Scrubs (and pining for my Tuesdays with Tylere, Danny, Nancy, Regan, Jon, and Jerad) my boss called me to come upstairs. The family stood around me, and handed me a gift. I went to see La Boheme last weekend, and two tickets at $95 a pop is a GIFT, motherfucker. S insisted I have something to "open."
It's a lovely, hand-made journal from India. Truly artful. She invisions me recording my completed poetry here.
The card was some New-Yorkie themed 12-days-of-Christmas... with my $200 bonus. And my paycheck for this week and next week; my holidays are paid, too. And two weeks' vacation (I have no idea where to spend one of those).
So up in my room I have $1,100 that they just gave me the week before Christmas. That's two weeks' pay and my bonus. They're not done buying gifts. It's nice, but I really sort of miss the ole, "goolly dern, mama! how we gonne do Christmas this year!" and then it all pulls together out of love.
On the other hand my credit is looking good.
The last time I had $1,100 at my disposal was the summer of 2000, when I took out the school loan, quit my job, and drank for two months.
It's 10:30 and I have to go to bed now (to read); I wish there was an all-night diner around the corner for me to fetch some coffee while I read, and meet people, but this is the kind of neighborhood where people are shelling out $1,000 to everyone who works for them, and double that to their kids.
