Thursday, June 24, 2004

I'm not your Whore

You don't love me. Don't look at me like that. I know why you're here. Don't pretend. You just came for a little bloggy bloggy and before I even get to finish your off on someone else's page. All the same. You only want one thing. What do you mean you don't care about Alaska. "Tell us about the girls. THE GIRLS!" Fuck you. Well why should I? I don't know shit about girls. They're fucking crazy but they're beautiful and I want to hold them and squeeze them and do bad things to them and then run far away. Run far away and hide from them and hope they never find me ever again. I could just give away my phone and my home and grab the next flight to Pederson Point from Anchorage via Dallas. At least you would know my address. All you would have to do is write it on the side of the bottle: to Dylan c/o The End of The World. But I'm here and you're here and the TMG is just down the street and the G2K is 2K miles away but sometimes it feels so close it's like I'm suffocating. And I just want to be all at sea. Where no one can bother me. Just me and my thoughts. Sailing far away. But I'm stuck. In the movie theater. And the TMG is sitting next to me. And I'm pretending to be falling asleep. But she has one upped me and pretended like nothing had ever happened right in front of our friends. Which is OK, because neither of us told our friends. And I put my arm on the armrest. And I feel the hairs on her arm. Why does she jump at every little loud noise? I wish my hairs could tell her the story. I wonder if she understood them. They were screaming at her. Don't you understand? I'm here and you're here but there's this wall between us. The signs keep pushing us together. But we're pushing eachother apart. It all happened to fast. Why did it happen like this? Can I do bad things to you and then run away? I want a do-over. But She doesn't hear. She knows my arm is there. Maybe she listens. But she doesn't hear. And there are more signs. Like the tripods. No one understand the tripods. And the Tao of Pooh. Don't tell me about Buddhism, I read that fucking book when I was 12. You smart people and your books. You surround yourselves with books and they're the wrong fucking books.

But the G2K calls at work. She found a cheap ticket to Italy. $600. Would I come with her, she wants to know. All this movement. Just when I was beginning to like everything standing still. I'm 100 years old. I'm 100 and trapped in this young body and stillness is always fleeting.


beep beep. Text message. Who is it? TMG? G2K? No. Both. And I want to throw my phone into the busy street outside my window. Where the cars are always driving by. There is no silence. But more importantly there is no stillness. And the TMG asks me to go out with her tomorrow. But I'm pulling the Mag/catering double header. It's been 3 weeks since I have seen her last. "Maybe I'll see you in 3 more." But if she heard the hairs on my arm she will know that I'll call her tomorrow.

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