Compare and contrast, part deux

Sixty days ago: I hit the snooze on my alarm and begin to drift off. Auto floats into my head and I feel a physical twinge of sadness. Hell, I’m awake now. I shower, shave, dress, dry my hair. I poke myself in the eye with the mascara wand. A quick glance at the phone reveals a few late (or very early) text messages from M that I didn’t hear (I’m so used to hearing my Nickelback ringtone Far Away I must have slept right through it). I check them and get another twinge; butterflies. I finish a half-hearted application of beauty products and I’m out the door. It’s 5:30am. My day has started.

Today: I hit the alarm once more. It may disturb sis but the chemo seems the excuse for everything (I’m tired…I’m really not hungry…I want to be left alone…) I lie there staring at ceiling, waiting out the five minutes for time to flash and scream at me to get my cowardly ass out of bed and face my demons. My mind falls to Auto and I wonder if the pit in my stomach is from not eating in three days (save the coke I guzzle by the liter) or melancholy. I let out a tired sigh and flick off the alarm. The ice water I’m showering in feels great, shocking me to finish up. I do, dress, leave my hair soaking wet. Poke my eye with the mascara wand. Finish an improved job of my makeup. Make coffee. Ugh, it hurts my stomach but I need the caffeine. Because I’ve had a terrible case of insomnia since May. I stare at the computer screen. I stare at him. Creepy. Christ. But I don’t wanna go to work. I just wanna sit here. So I do. Stare reluctantly at the clock. Yeah, alright. It’s 5:30am and as I slam the door and curse at the key sticking in the lock I push everything to the back of my mind. The air is crisp. I tuck my jumper around me and turn around. My day has started.

In a perfect world baby

Auto: If it were up to me, I’d be married by now.

Me: and miserable, at best

Auto: No, not to her specifically. It’s what I want.

Me: Oh.

Auto: I just want a pretty wife, an okay house and a fast car that sleeps in the garage ’til I want to drive her.

Me: Aw.

Aw?? Gee, what was I thinking. Yeah, if the world didn’t spin cockeyed, I’d be getting cold beers, ironing laundry and kissing a warm body good night every night.

What does she have? Time. I’d have it too, again, ‘if only’. She may have loved you first, but I believe I’m next in line.

the uphill slope, in retrospect

“is the euphoric bliss-filled time period before the downhill spiral. The time you think ‘it’s getting better, man’ and you wake up with something to smile about. But the inevitable, moreso for the embittered cynic, looms ahead waiting to rain on your parade. And it will. For now I’ll just try to enjoy the sunshine.”

Ah. Silly me. It’ll linger.

twenty eight

Not a magic number. My phone jingles and vibrates; after time two I know who it is. There is no little tingle in my chest. No scramble to read a response. It wasn’t even a response. I groan. What have I done? I’m in the effin’ deep end again. Throw me one of those inflatable ducks so I can get the hell out of here.

My personality isn’t cut out for this. I may be lonely, but I’d rather sit and what if, I wonder, and maybe just maybe than manufacture……..or feel it right then and there but with closed eyes. There’d be someone else in mind. Ho-hum. Another day awaits my views on romantic drivel.

quote of the week

“Your moral compass is so fucked I’ll be surprised if you make it to the parking lot.”

 Burn.

Wake up

Give me flint to make a metaphorical spark. To reiterate my secret weakness for Auto, my hands do not shake with newboy. I don’t get nervous. I care how I look as much as a normal self-respecting girl does before leaving the house. It’s a bit like D I think, we’re so much alike we just look at each other during close contact and shake our heads with a wry smile. It’s just a no-go. More time you say? Perhaps.

RR says no time at all. Uncomfortable, comforting discussions with Auto leave me hanging on, hoping he’ll fall in the process of leaning on me. Well that’s for damn sure if you walk away she scolds. And she’s right. No sense in bouncing from one to the other. Especially when I’m looking for someone to fill a mold, and not a regular old void. Can I share some blame with him for leaving such an impression? I feel like my skin is still fingerprinted.

I did sort of promise. I think the sort of is part of my problem. If I could sit on that couch for the rest of my life watching Pinks, I swear I would. Open your eyes, boy.

you do the math

Riddle me this: I’m not a give it up girl. I don’t look the part, dress the part, talk the part. So how does each encounter condense down to that? They came, they saw, they came, they left. I just get 59 extra days of the one night stand to play pretend.

My biased opinion does lead the small remaining tender spot in me to exclude one of them of course. Even his worst intentions never cast a self-gratifying light on me (the actual self-gratifying was always routine and mutual, perfectly timed, odd for the awkward newly dating). I’m a fool to think Auto is a good man. Is it just the power of good sex? That is a strong argument in his favour, sure, but certainly I’ve not digressed that far. My rose coloured glasses need to come off, but from my seat beside him on the sofa, the view is flawless. Fortuantely for him, I’m a ‘great girl’. Trying to let reality seep in, I’m looking in the mirror with a different connotation of the earlier phrase…’give it up, girl’. Easy for you to say. I laugh. She laughs back. Bitch.

prayer

Maybe I am young and naiive. It’s pretty ridiculous to think about marriage, to get attached the way I do. But if everything is great, more than great what do you want from me? I gave everything I should have (well some girls wait, hmm-hmm) and got swept off my feet.

I’m ignoring it, shrugging it off, biding my time for it to fade to the background. And like Auto, I know he’ll pop back up sometime somehow and surprise me. Make the day and ruin it all at once. Catch me while I’m in full swing stupidity with someone else and send me in a tailspin. I’ll pine and hurt and cry. Fuck this. Am I one of those pathetic people who can’t be alone? I love being by myself, how does that add up? Someone’s always due home though.

Lord, send me someone who’ll come home. Every night. To me. Is it such a crime to want to take care of someone?

hermano

I don’t bring a lawn chair or a grief soundtrack, don’t judge me. But I’m still the broken little girl I was almost eight years ago. Where’d you go? Are you ’sleeping’? Are you in your own heaven, or someone’s hell? You were a good kid and I don’t understand why you got taken away from me. It’s not fair. Dammit, I am still a kid. It should be during monumental moments I miss you the most. But it’s the every day things you’re not here for that really slay me.

They’re making a movie of The Lovely Bones. I almost died right there. A moving picture to unfold the pages I read that helped heal me and broke me down all over again, at the same time. Time, right? I don’t know. But I was sitting there in the rain. And thank god, no one could see my tears. The every day boil over you miss. Which is a good thing, because I’ve always hated leaning on other people for support. Somehow though, you always made things better.

Fuck drunk drivers.

skip to the chorus

Why does riding with a friend, summer day, top of your lungs singing (out of key, but the volume’s up, what the hell?) make you feel better? Is there something hidden in that 3 or so minutes you’re belting it out that you’re missing the rest of the time? Maybe it’s just an interruption. Life is a that awful song you always change the radio station for. And it’s on repeat.

Am I supposed to learn to love it?