J,
I hate cars. And car repairs. I get hate mail from the tire guys who
always
want to balance and rotate things. I just can’t muster up concern for
things
like “uneven wear”. Fuck it all.
My week isn’t any better, I don’t think, but I’ve given up feeling bad
about
feeling bad.
I liked sleeping on your lumpy couch better than your weird doll bed.
So
much of our stuff strikes me as weird though. A huge firmish cushion
for one
body seems excessive. I sleep on a small futon mattress. It’s just
barely
larger than a cracker. I always thought dog beds looked pretty
reasonable
too but have yet to commit to a purchase. Maybe when the futon wears
out.
Then I can rent out a closet somewhere and really reduce overhead. Or a
cabinet even.
I want a couch again. For a while after getting a divorce, I kept
getting
rid of more and more stuff. I just could not stop myself. It took me
two
trips to move. One for all my stuff, including Em’s stuff and one for
the
washer and dryer. It was great. Like shedding eight hundred pounds in a
week. But I think I may be ready for a new couch. Used and hopefully
ugly.
I’m in pain because of the tension that builds when I can’t make
things.
Paint (poorly), draw or whatever. It drives me crazy. I just can’t.
Sometimes I can do small things. Like snip bits of yarn into a tiny
pool of
glue and then smash that with my hand for a minute or cut my hair
randomly
without looking, and these stupid things will vent a great deal of this
steam. But sometimes I hate making shit more than I hate the tension.
Or I
just can’t stomach to bring it poorly or incompletely to form. Or my
emotions are ugly.
It sort of hurts everywhere and I find it hard to be near anyone when
I’m in
this mode.
I actually feel angry at people for running around shuffling stage
props
from store to suv to house and finding meaning in it. For avoiding any
ungaurded moments. For discouraging death, fucking and intimacy while
being
thouroughly preoccupied with all, sometimes in combination. It makes me
want
to bite earlobes in line at a bank or stand directly on top of peoples’
feet
when they are talking. I talk too loud. I say whatever. And I resent
being
stared at like a lunatic. I just cannot hide or pretend to give a damn
about
arbitrary rules that protect what and whom? I just can’t be that way
and not
want to smash things. So I have to wait it out and stay in my
apartment. And
sort of jog circles around Em so she doesn’t catch this bad disease of
unhappiness I have. I know it will pass. Often I am oblivious to our
collective tendencies.
My cousin gave me a mantra today. It’s, “Everything is o.k.”.
Nice. I see myself in a straightjacket in a green, tiled hallway and
the
orderlies have their hands in front of them trying to back me into a
corner,
and that is what they are saying to me really slowly.
I hope nothing breaks for a long time. I have to go. I’m hungry.
I miss you,
K
Katzcrunch 