i'm awake at 6:30 in the morning and the crows are cawing intently. nothing makes me feel safe in quite the same ominous way as cawing crows. the crows of here, of our old town, of a neighborhood in los angeles encrusted in celebrity minimansion masterpieces & dense webs of tree, my running sweat & a labrythine glamour.
we--we, the societal collective--need to socialize me more. i frantic; i skitter.
using okcupid here makes me nervous because if i fuck up a message there's a very real threat of encountering its recipient in person and being in-person judged, which is not a form of judgment i typically mind but the whole landscape of acceptable judgment gets altered when i can be seen actively trying and failing.
a worry: that my desire to prematurely dress for cooler weather is depression-indicative.
what am i going to do with this tulip bulb. can tulips be grown hydroponically. is that even the correct word. i want to eat the hell out of some tulip petals.
my ideal part-time job is working for a moving company. thinking about most jobs makes me feel like i'm dying but i fucking love to pick stuff up and then put it down somewhere new.
i come to with my heart feeling quite literally physically immediately heavy in my chest, a lump of clay in my chest, and the kind of urgency that speaks to a ghost having only recently vacated my body, and maybe all my dreams are is ghosts seeking warmth from my stillness until they get spit out in the dawn dark and i unplug my phone and unplug my urgency to swipe through a few dozen women on tinder.
detaching is a struggle when you want to remain attached somewhere. not whole heart--left atrium? shoulders, knees, all the body is a throbbing heart, a plumber's dream; the liveable heart has one particular hole you stick your head through to scream and startle whoever's rounding the blood-throbby corner. i think between texts, will we never share feelings again? some intimacies have an obvious need for abandonment but others remain indeterminate. on my birthday, we sat on her bed with the door open. we ask before we hug each other. look, tmi, i miss touch. every time i hear a song she covered for me, my chest is a pit (family feud question: name a pit, and i honestly feel repulsive for having thought, "mosh," but it's not like i find any joy in mosh pits, so fine). feelings are dumb. love is dumb. was dumb. has been dumb to me on repeat for years.
in class, people talk. i hate their talking mostly. i have two more years of pretending i don't. i hate my fucking traitor brain. i use my purple pen. i try not to slither out of my chair and onto the floor, screaming, "let me have been a biomedical engineer!!!!"
i think my pain is coming back. insert emoji of the OK hand here.