Sometimes I need a reminder.
I’ve never been more sure of something in my life. She’s the one.
I’m getting emotional as I age. I don’t enjoy it. Feels like torture. But I can no longer deny that I am deeply affected by things.
Some of my earliest memories
Are of being afraid of people and being terrified of falling asleep.
I Love You, I do.
I’ve read over that poem you like. And I’ve read the other ones I’ve written about you throughout these years. I’m sorry for what I said. Being dismissive about my feelings, it’s an easy escape to deny and minimize. It’s also a bad habit of mine which makes things worse, I know.
I guess I never knew what to do with them. I couldn’t tell you, but I could write. I’m glad I did. And I’m sad I did. I still haven’t told you, maybe I never will.
I’m in love with you. I was in love with you then. And I’m afraid I still am. I just don’t know how to love.
Wiggle and Sip
I’m sitting at the bar, Long Island ice tea. Straight from the office: dress, heals, cardigan and all.
Adjust my glasses.
They’re fake, but I’ve been wearing them for three weeks now.
Office job.
Wheeling and dealing, respectable business woman.
Fake glasses.
Another sip while I write this.
My three lives, I think.
Business is one.
Tristan.
He is.
My life.
My everything is poured into him.
Wringing myself out.
I can’t stop moving.
Rocking in my seat,
head tilt,
wiggle my toes.
Sit back as a couple enters the bar.
HE GETS YUENGLING!
Cook yells from the side.
What’ll it be? She asks the woman.
Jack and coke.
O! bartender says enthusiastically. Yea girl!
I start to relax. More people puts me at ease. I can disappear into the crowd, not always something easy for me.
Sip my drink,
this is why I stopped at the cave: to disappear into the crowd, even if only for a few moments.
Sip.
Adjust my glasses.
Wiggle in my seat.
Third life…
My other life.
.
.
Adjust my glasses.
Finger my straw.
Stretch my back.
Lean against my chair.
My other life, my real life:
The life where I’m me.
My dark, base desires.
I NEED TO PUMP AND DUMP!, Another woman shouts from the other side of the bar.
Exactly.
My dark and base desires.
I lean forward and wiggle my ass back into my chair,
Spread my legs apart,
press my hips down, into my seat.
Some woman is talking about Pelosi with the cook. She imitates Nancy’s laugh and it’s pretty spot on.
My senses are dulling with every sip.
My pussy is waiting.
The cook starts chatting me. O man, he’s a wild one.
To be honest I was hoping a man I used to know would be here.
Jeff.
Old, grizzled bartender.
We fucked once in the back room of this bar.
My fucking cunt is whispering to me.
She needs cock.
She needs fucked bad.
She needs to be fucked.
Rough.
With a hard prick and a firm hand.
I want to fuck someone here.
I don’t care about anything except getting off.
Do you think the guy next to me would fuck me?
Do you think he will make me cum?
Are you picturing my pussy pressed against this chair?
Short dress riding up.
Wiggling and sipping.
S2E14
Building panic attack until:
It’s that moment when Jack “dies.”
It’s that moment when I realized if something were to happen to me, no one would know until it’s too late.
Totally alone.
Kevin reminds me so much of Tyler.
My Two Lives
Quarter to 6 the alarm goes off.
Snooze twice.
Lay in bed dread the day.
Begrudgingly open my eyes, read the news.
There’s usually a lot going on, a lot to catch up on.
Some days I drown my thoughts with fluff pieces: animal videos, top ten lists, adorable kids, people doing amazing things.
Anything but what lay ahead of me.
Struggle out of bed.
Get ready for work, all the while rushing.
I’m already late.
Traffic is unpredictable.
Work.
It’s hard to focus. There’s so much going on all the time.
Socializing is my reprieve, but work’s not getting done when that happens.
It’s much needed. This is little break from my home life.
Gasping for air.
It’s a rollercoaster all day.
Work, fuck off, worry repeat.
I dread going home.
Never know what I’m coming home to.
Seems like things keep getting worse.
Everything is unpredictable, volatile, stressful.
I hold my breath until he’s asleep.
It’s already late, past 10.
I can’t relax, can’t sleep, can’t get anything done.
I try to keep quiet and not think, but there’s a broken record playing.
And I can’t sleep, can’t relax; It’s past eleven.
All I want is sleep.
