Ask Chuck
June 18, 2002 @ 2:09 p.m.
I had a boy look at me the other night. Poor boy, he doesn't know what he's getting himself into.
His name was Chuck, and he had a diamond earring. What's your mother like, Chuck? I'd love to meet her.
And it's good because it's simple. It's nothing made into everything. It's the essence of what hurts in me every night. It's what makes me glad I can medicate myself in pill form and wash it down with a Smirnoff.
And I like self-pity because it wastes a lot of time. So when I sit and contemplate all that is wrong with the world I'll have a pretty good start on a microcosm of it.
I keep thinking all of those cliches about how my life is a joke, a mistake, a dream I'm about to wake up from.
It seems all a bunch of pointlessness. As I grow older I find it more calming to accept what I've been given and less imperative to work for something more. I'm getting tired now, and the tapping percussion in the background wants to lull me to sleep.
I thought the wrinkled pages would exist beyond me, but Chuck doesn't care for the vindication I feel for my bottletop philosophy. I should think living without suffering and self-served drama would become boring after a while.
And the cafeteria food and curving paths of climbing ivy will be easier to forget over time, and I send my reasons as I send all my love letters, with an apology.
Those from the past I want to remember have already forgotten their promise to woo me into entranced oblivion and break my heart. And although it was me who lied, I don't know if I'll ever be sorry for it. Reality is not something I have found they accept rather well.
There's this horrible talent I have in guessing the ones that are beautiful but dangerous and then subscribing to them as though I knew nothing else. As though I have everything figured out. As though they would ever find a girl with dull eyes and boring curves attractive.
So it's just as much my fault for not bringing their minds around, for screaming in the ears of the deaf. And it's just like you to point out that all my self-destructive behaviors are, in fact, maintained by myself.
It's disheartening to know that those who observe me most times are staring at a pity case, a shadow who can only be bulleted by the certain few that I am comfortable enough to speak around. And I'm not like you, dammit, I'm afraid of this world. Timid. What goes up, what goes down.
Early mornings and drawn shades don't keep the phone from ringing and me hearing your voice when it's someone else on the line. I'm wishing for you again because I have nothing better to wish for.
Can we go back to the moment I leaned into you and freeze life into that? I remember how you smelled and I want to go back to that spot forever, you and I frozen, wax models.
I heard it was all supposed to make sense the more you lived it, life I mean. I hate the complicated it brings along, the sense of accomplishing nothing very particular.
What's the point? What's the use? What's the difference between a worker bee and the queen, put to human terms? Praying vs. killing brings no difference but a modified playpen.
Ask Chuck, the poor boy. I'm sure he knows the meaning of life. After all, he gave me a look.
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- - March 22, 2010
always the same - July 01, 2008
b-a-n-a-n-a-s! - December 25, 2006
elementary again - October 29, 2006
I don't like you, but I love you - October 03, 2006