7 February '98
journal: journal. jo-ur-nal. jour-nal. journal. sounds like.. urinal. i've forgotten how to write my lower
case r's and how to wash the dishes. so i'm sitting here, my back to a tori poster that isn't mine. and
thinking that i should probably be on the floor, spinning and twirling (maybe twisting), but then.. i'm afraid
that i'm not the only one who's been on that spot on the floor, you know. not that this bed is any safer.
sniffle. pail fantasies. what's it like to be used the way i use people? how do you feel when i hurt you like
this? why can't i get a glass of water? okay, so now i'm afraid that i don't get privacy. and i'm so used to
the doorknob twisting before i hear a knock. i scratch my chin and wish i could live on my own. even
though i'm not home right now and this certainly doesn't feel like home. not even on the cold days. just as
long as i can drown in this blue ink, i'll be fine. i won't hear any unwelcome music. the door's shut tight.
these walls are very thick. i tell myself. very thick. and i've always got a spare pen to keep me
going. to keep me safe. one always louder than the other. what're they doing in the other room, i wonder.
making love to sour music? eating pizza and getting the crumbs stuck in the keyboard? or maybe just
washing the dishes. i wish my writing wasn't so small, so i could fill these pages quicker. but then.. maybe
there's just less space on the paper for me to worry about. i move my lips and form each letter. breathe her
name one more time.. do you hate me? fuck. i can hear the music now. i write harder. beat out the drums.
fuck. you. focus on something new? wish i had a cup of coffee and that every other wish didn't spill out
look flat soda. please please please stop. i drown in pleading this tune. listening to the sounds of water
and ceramic dishes. cat food and names that sounds like.. past history notes. is that redundant? the faster
the louder the quicker i rid of you and fuck punctuation. turn down the volume. PLEASE! i chip away at
my blue nail polish. but i don't wear nail polish. what if i finished the sentence.. and loose my train of
thought again. there has to be some way to stop the music.
my spot. now the music has stopped. i'd be in the bathtub if it wasn't wet. i feel like charlotte. but mrs. flax
isn't bathing in soap bubbles. my hands covering my face. i'm frustrated! can't you see.. i've gone mad and i
want to wash away these.. sins. leave me to my soap! food. don't other people need this room? yes. but i
don't want the music!! all right. have it your way. i'll suffer. hm. they lost the toilet paper roll. guh.
move along. i prop myself against the door (to shut her out). stay. out. music and all. this is anti-
obsession month and i love this pen because [she] always gets me outta here. and makes everything okay. i
don't ring. don't call me that. blah. whoa. "piss on you." piss on you! it's your fault, not mine, bitch. she
crumples up a thin sheet of gold and tosses it to the mountains. your loss. i would not never never never
write to her with your paper. your stinking paper. that smells like neil's feet! this floor isn't very sturdy, i
feel myself sinking in.. like falling asleep in a puddle of blood. though i'm clean, i'm sure they're downstairs
catching all this stuff in a bucket wishing i hadn't died in the movies. i think i'll write a novel tonight. just to
impress the kitty. i'm sorry i'm using you to get revenge on god. on karma. (if you read quickly enough,
you'll hear my voice.) "you guys! i finally tried e yesterday!" "the channel?" die, fuckers! die die die!
damn i'm thirsty. i better break this down. how many more pages until i've gota novel? this floor is too
hard for me bum. i relocate. never mind, i know she didn't sit here. i hate the pictures here. they're too
happy. they're not intoxicating. they're restricting. like my socks today. i hate you. i have to write a poem
now. she "frees" her mind. oh fuck that. i believe the music has stopped. or i've done a really good job
with blocking it out. still can't breathe though. oh shit. spoke too soon. look at the light.. how it seeps into
this room. when i thought i was alone. it's all yours. and i'm not a piece of you. and you'll never be a piece
of me. remember when she used to write to you like a journal? remember when you were sad and happy all
at once? well this is like the past. but i can never be. i feel clustered. i should take a walk to think of other
excuses like "i can't go outside because it's raining and there's nowhere to sit and i need to sit." but i guess i
thought of that too early. hi. i'd love to run away just so i can write a note. or do something like that. just
to leave a note. maybe that's why people write notes to each other. it's like.. good-bye. each a new one.
we like to die so many times. heh. i've died a few then. and i'm sure you've died more. when i sign my
name now, i sign yours instead. like you've taken over my hands. i run my fingers over yours.. and wish
that you had. so i wouldn't miss them so much. this is really yours, you know. when i address you, it's
really ten other people. but i speak only to one in this light. yeah. and here what i write is poured out of
you. but you could never truly admit your hate like i do. when your hand goes over your paper like
tornadoes -only slower- i trace the circles. i trace the confusion and chaos you create with such little effort.
and i trace each curve, knowing i'll never know beauty like this again. and not wanting to, either. because
you have blinded me, i only see you. and that is all i need. but i wish you'd bring me some water. and that i
could focus on one thing at a time instead of twenty. thought i've managed to block the must out. though
every time i remember that i have.. it comes back. see, you're in everything. i learn to love what i hate most
because of/for you. that picture over my head is rimmed in you. you border it and make it less.. ugly. and
you spill out with this ink. or the ink is you. and you've stained the tips of my socks and fingers. you haunt
me like a welcomed ghost. a lover who's never left, just taken a trip to another dimension. or in your case,
another state and every time i turn my head to hurt my guts.. you push it back down. my knuckles hurt
instead. write, write! fool. i need her all the more. and me all the less? never. nonsense. this time the
music found its way back on its own. but i have a shield! i made it myself. out of silver, [not] gold. keep
awake. and breathe! your eyes keep twitching.. in different directions. all i've loved. how odd it is to find
traces of me in you. how.. scary. i position myself against the bed and door. so my legs will be broken
should one move. the phone rings. ring ring ring! this is my hideout. no one can find me (i hope). i'm
gonna hear some shouting soon..
blech. maybe i should take a walk.. do you remember.. click click click. sniffle. i wonder. is she
giggling to my mother? damn. i wish i had brought some smokes. what else can you do outside in the rain
and cold? if i sleep, she'll go away. away.. away. mm. fingers are sore. lips dry, anything else? my leg is
twitching.. break me! or cough on me! hm. there must be a hundred sheets of paper here. or at least fifty.
so if i don't finish all but one, the markings of my secrets will be left for her to see! oh no! i hope i'm
entertaining myself. i can never tell these days. i wonder why i don't turn blue when i get tired. instead i
blink and blink and run out the door to chase her.. don't leave yet.. stay just a bit longer. let me hold you
just a little longer. and my brother screams to wake me up. though i'm sure those weren't his real intentions.
i forgot how many steps are between us sometimes. i sleep in my dream(s). i haven't eaten dinner.. how can
you talk on the phone with somebody two feet away from you? it makes me nervous. i'm not oblivious
enough so she never had the intensity i gave her. and she seemed so.. thick. happy? no. too.. together and
messed up at once. twang! tway-ngh! i'm not writing a novel tonight. i've decided to stick to riding
cowboys. or cowgirls. or seventh grade lip balm.. strawberry flavoured. (no sorrow here.) do the hand
jive! i'm glad i didn't bring a tape player. you'd have me sobbing in the corner. and that, i do not do. No
more! i suppose this position isn't helping my bones. oops. did it again. i look down. and thank the pen.
and whisper one last time "i think the music has stopped." i wonder if i'm talking to the wall or to the paper.
five pages of trash (and sincerity), not bad, eh? it has a virus though. i've coughed on it so many times.
promise you won't read this if i fall asleep (sleep?). i think i'm doing that now or maybe i'm just closer to the
wall and sliding down instead of up. or er.. down. no, i think i'm closer to sleep and AHH. damn the music.
started again. what hell! take my hand.. i'm going to my gates. or not. or not! don't! start! another! page!
i whine. and i'm still thirsty. five pages later. ohhh. fuck this again. i'm retreating back to the bathroom.
too bad if your bladders burst. and my stomach is saying yes! but i'm not saying yes.. that was bad. i think i
might vomit. but i haven't eaten in a while. so maybe i'll just heave. damn. it's yelling at me. and my knees
always shake when i'm not flat on the ground. for chrissake, has the fucking music stopped yet?! i don't feel
[as] safe in this bathroom. is it okay if i write a letter on this paper and rewrite it later? am i in the letter
mood? not really. but i seem to be doing a good job with breaking my hand. i'm not going beyond
ten pages. or looking up again. or brushing my hair today! i might just make a pillow of this paper and ink
and sleep on it. or think about comma's. ski trips. PROFILES! hoping she'll invade my dreams.. stop. stop.
must everything lead back to that? mmmm. yeah, probably. i capitalize every meaningful letter because of
weird curves. my brother says i'm into witchcraft. so i turn him into a frog and eat him? no. i give him to
angie. no. she stepped in him. he rotted up in the rafters. for being there an entire year. though i thought
he burned in the big online fire. weirded out. hm? waltzing in this neck brace ouch! i thought i was going
to sleep. but then i'll hear every fucking sound through these walls. that. would suck. ugh. ugh. stop it!
stop it! noooo. i hate your guitar and i hate paranoia. and these socks! the faucet is now running. pink
lizards, hopefully. so i won't have to cough them up anymore. i wonder why no one opens this door.. or am
i speaking too soon? i guess not. off to bed with you? yes yes yes! go! pleaseeeeee. go. go. go. guh.