Mud, glorious mud.

I'm holding my tongue, mostly, to stop myself from saying things before I'm sure I mean them. But I mean that I realise that that place isn't mine anymore. It only was for a few weeks in the beginning and then a few more near the end of my time. It belongs to people who are willing to forgive and forget easily and gracefully, it belongs to people who can share everything that belongs to them. I am neither of these things. I am someone who wants a few things that are only mine and when they are not, I want to hurt over it until someone recognises what hurts me.

I won't find that there. I won't find that anywhere.

It's an odd contradiction to waste such exorbitant amounts of time seeking pain so that you might need to be consoled. Or better yet, won't be consoled and can exist in a perpetual sulk.

It's probably time for me to go - I always have a hard time detaching from what hurts me. I like the old familiar feelings, even as they break me apart. Familiarity is comforting. I wonder when I'll ever have the courage to stop wallowing.

I hope you know that this will go down on your permanent record.

I was reading Tin House and thinking about whether I might belong there, whether there might be something there that could help me to get started doing the things I long to do, the things I always felt I was meant to. It's more a matter of not starting than it is of not finishing - and when it is about finishing it has less to do with capability than it has to do with stick-to-it-ive-ness. I haven't much of that.

I might try again.

Let us go then, you and I.

It's dishonest to say I'm not angry. I am. I grow so weary with being angry; why am I so fragile? Why is my first reaction anger rather than any other? Anger is safer and it feels stronger, much more so than weeping or whining. The anger I learned is armour that I cannot seem to unburden myself with. The standing-sit-circle was the standard way to rest - my anger leaning lightly upon yours, supported and lifted up by your seething. Your seething rested gingerly upon hers, and hers upon his, and theirs upon theirs. We were a poisonous mass of rage, each supporting each other in our illness.

I have broken the circle, first by being dropped, then by falling, then by struggling back up to my feet and choosing, instead, to stand. Now my anger is unsupported; I carry it alone. I will either learn to bear its weight alone or else, better yet, learn to put some of it down.

It's alright to get caught stealing back what you've lost.

Little things make me angry sometimes. While I can handle the tiredness, the flat tire, the ripoff ticket dispenser, the spilled coffee, the insult, I can't handle as nicely some of the other, smaller things, perhaps because they are in black and white, posted signage for the world to see, where the other things were private frustrations. In spite of being bigger frustrations, when they were dealt with, they ended for me. These others, they carry on beyond.

That's how dudes be gettin' sick

I always feel like laughing when she boasts about her "blue sea diamond". He sent me one too; perhaps he sent out a series of them to soft-hearted saps who each believed there was some special thought behind this gift. It's not that I care if the gift was expensive, I just care that it was meant for me, and not purchased in bulk to send to everyone.

One day when I was dusting the window-ledge with the vaccuum attachment, I accidentally vaccuumed up the blue sea diamond and heard it thump-thumping its way through the vaccuum hose and through the vaccuum pipes that ran throughout the house. If, at this point, I hadn't known that the "blue sea diamond" was yet another piece of generic garbage, I could see myself standing in the basement up to my knees in dust and hairballs trying to fish it out of the vaccuum bag. Fortunately, as it was, by this point, I was aware of how little this thing meant to him and though I hadn't been hard enough to throw it away on purpose, it certainly didn't sting much to let it stay where it landed.