And we all always fall. And we fall.

NaNoWriMo this year's going to kick my literary ass, but I need to get in the habit of being able to perhaps schedule my writing.

You know.

If I ever need to.

Writing for myself this year.

Ohhhh yeah.

Talk about your wild rides.

Bleeding from my ankle and he's disgusted with the taste and I am disheartened. When I was told we would change I was hoping it wouldn't be in all the wrong places like is happening every single day. And I bleed bleed bleed. Pick, bleed. Pick, bleed. I like the red, and the warmth that leaks from me on so scant any other occasions. And I like to think that if I multiplied this small amount by 202, carried the five and forgot where I was, had to get a piece of paper to work the equation because my weakness is visualized quantities, that I could possibly be dying right now.

What's it feel like to swim in your own blood?

I have so many scars from a habit that never healed. What a poor habit, making yourself bleed. Alas, it's what a lot of us do best.

So I'm writing it for myself.

The story, I mean.

The novel. The novelty.

Thinking about Green Hair.

The flippant criticism of adolescent life. The collected sigh of many words written one upon the other, trying to make sense of a relationship held purely in a conjectured fashion. A relationship that was thought about and prepared for but never executed, and oh, what a fitting word.

Execution is precisely what happened that cold cold day. On the bus. Oh, how quaint, on the school bus, the two little school children quarreling only this time. She. Has. Had. Enough. Headphones back on, aggravated at the disruption of the influx of sound. You have no right to feed me words when my God is in Colorado fucking a fat faux redhead. You have no right to make me feel. You have no right to allow me to bring you to bed, to lay with you sinfully, in the presence of all that was salvaged and tarnished, to press your cock against my thigh and moan your despised desire to thrust, because it would be that easy. Just six inches from the craved confection, a sweet thing beneath you, writhing out of pain and misery and spite and petty wrath.

Your mouth on my neck.

Sticky.

The obliterating embarrassment in American History the next day. Having to collar myself because God's not there to do it for me, and I'd have been damned if you were to perform such a then-sacred act of repentance.

Removing my clothing to keep you there, just one more devouring hug that lasted for hours.

Let me hold you. Let me pretend.

I still hurt for the continuance of those moments there in that wretched bed with that horrible russian techno that made me disgust those moments for some time, the time before I used my hands for grasping, the thumbs doing what they're there to do for once.

I'm writing this right here for you, you foolish boy. You fumbling lover. You abusive friend. You sweet, fragile memory. This space will be for you.

I left my nest to write this in the denied hope that you would ever read it. I left my naked God wrapped in feathers so I could let the lump into my throat once more, sting my eyes with tears that don't belong and wish that I had kissed the younger man. The green-haired child. Wish that I had felt those cold lips with my own, wish I had just one more memory unturned to explore with the tenderness of recalling fond moments.

Wherever you are, whatever you're doing and whoever you're doing it with, I really did mean what I told you as we parted ways.

Honest.

Ilovebees.com has bored me to death with too many axons and coordinates and running around when I have a life outside of unlocking clips of poor voice acting. In MY opinion, if you can TELL it's voice acting, then it's been done poorly.

Colorado in three days and I am so skittish. Everything school-wise is worked out. Still need to get my books. (Maybe this time they'll actually be there?) God, I can't believe I have to declare my major already. I'm on the crux of 18, how the hell do I know what will work out best? Everything's blind right now, stumbling over its own feet.

The 1998 Nobel Prize winner in Literature hasn't impressed me a bit. There is a balance one has to hold onto within each story, and when one scale's tipped, everything goes wonky.

God, I can barely remember the last time I was on an airplane.

How about the fact that I had to wake up at 7:30 this morning to be at work by 8:15.

Or that I haven't said a word to Josiah since yesterday at 3pm.

I just feel so sick in every conceivable way. If only good times existed to come and go as they please. I feel as if teased by the sunlight, looking up through a small hole and getting three minutes of its time each day. I'd very much like to lay in it all day, but goodness continues to evade.

I think I feel this because I'm still tied to my mother in all the wrong ways. I don't want to drive 45 minutes to work for something I won't even see the end product of, and then disappear back up to Seattle at lunchtime to sit in a room with a person I don't want to talk to.

My biggest worry right now is that in his frenzy of cleaning while I was gone yesterday, he threw away a phone number I've been waiting three months to dial, and now is the time, and I'm afraid it won't be there for me to find, but even that's easily remedied. And how silly is it that the biggest problems aren't my biggest worries but inconsequential trivialities that, as the sun, come and go.

Nothing doing in respect to the daytime, or even the nighttime. We all always fall into the same bed each night, as if nothing's changed. Not a routine of worry, but painfully random, and in being so scattered, worrisome.

Life's very tricky right now.