Published April 24, 2012 by 51percentawesome

I’m eating a strange mix of oats, puffed rice, soy milk and spirulina. Add honey to anything and it’s palatable (like oxytocin and men). Sans the aftertaste, spirulina tastes like vagina. This week I’m a lesbian, and lucky for me, apparently exploring sexuality is societally acceptable, this week. Or so it seems.

On the train home I couldn’t keep my eyes open. For fear of missing my stop, I set my alarm. Then I couldn’t sleep.

I walk home with a backpack at one am, past the house where my exboyfriends girlfriend lives. I used to fuck him there.

I just emptied my bank account to pay the rent; in the fridge are more fruit and vegetables than I can poke a stick at.
Underpromise and overdeliver, she quips, but I’m not sure I can do that today, my friends.
My life seems to be the otherway around. Like a marching band, not moving, in place.
My house is a black hole, I go in here and never come out, and no one leaves notes on the door.

I wish someone would leave a note on the front door.

She was tanned, and earthy and curvy, just like I wished. Her hands were warm, her face was pretty. She wanted me on top, and fucking her made me come quicker than any guy ever has.
I don’t want her, anymore. I don’t want anymore of her. then why am I left aching?
Next to her I had to concentrate to sleep, like I always do, next to them. until I don’t.
All I wanted to do was eat her, and I did, and I liked the way she tasted, like me.
On the table were some SSRI’s, because none of us want to be around anymore. Their crinkle reminds me of the underlying drone she might feel as her life; or perhaps a drone would be a welcome relief from where she is, perhaps that’s what they’re for.

I have three phones, and I don’t want to talk to anyone. Not really.

Hippocrates’ scrolling Facebook newsfeed reflection of reality. Why the fuck am I still awake? (There are many ways to self-medicate).

11hours unconscious.

Phone rings: I won’t be going to India in July. I am excused from stepping out of my comfort zone today.

In the mail comes a package: Bridging discourses in the ESL Classroom. ‘I know this subject is a little tiresome. Eyes on the big picture, beautiful. Plan b could be fun and you like teaching. Kisses, Love me’.
Yes, I do love you, whoever you are, and you’re right about everything, except its actually back to Plan A. Pubishthegoddamedbook. Plan B is no longer an option. Again.

I’m eating a smoothie, berries, dates, goji, spirulina, oats, soy milk. The weather is cold and the cat is meowing.

I don’t have cat food, kitty litter, chia seeds or red lentils, and I’ve diluted the dregs of the moisturiser. I used up the last of the buckwheat flour making pancakes and haven’t refilled the black ink. I want to buy an insertable period cup. Fuck Tampons.

Awake at 4am. I have friends who tell me I need to change and yeah, I do. But maybe not in the way they intend.

The sunlight is bright and I writhe in discomfort. my feet grip the warm cement as though it is them holding me to the earth and not gravity.

The inside of the house is cold, and the walls feel emptier than usual.
I can smell myself, and usually I like that, but today it smells like her, not me.
There are sesame seeds, but no tahini. /With one hand he giveth and the other he taketh away/.
The cat meows pitifully, and it’s like that, we can have it all, but not at once, because some things are mutually exclusive.

Suddenly it is raining and I am back in bed, misting the screen of my phone with the condensation of my breath.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: