Until Then

This Actually Took a Pretty Long Time to Write, In Full

I feel like an ugly American but I’m not,

because it feels distinctly un-American to want to stop working ever, which is finally how I feel.

Sometimes i feel like I only got a chance to love the parts of you that were “un-fun;” the parts of you that not too long ago decided to casually take up responsibility like a hobby, leaving all other “old” aspects of your personality obfuscated, as though the old parts were distinctly realistic and “in there” but had artfully vacated for a couple of months or indefinitely.

I realized I can’t live a life of a relationship that’s based solely on the fun you seemed to used to be having with other people in Facebook pictures from 2007, though. It took me over 10 months to come to this conclusion but who cares, because I came to it. Everything we did was always weeks too late, and always exactly the opposite of what either of us needed. Because of this, I cannot currently forgive myself or you.

Sometimes I forget (or can’t handle the fact that) my mom is a person who feels things in relation to certain decisions I make.

Sometimes I feel like the way I write indicates that I “am not really a writer”. My perpetual concern with reflexivity and “exploring my emotions” makes me look like a sap compared to people who are writing technically perfect sound poems, or composing sonically distinct noise collages or whatever.

I want to be a writer who isn’t the kind of writer that I am, but I don’t know how to be

I want to be gross and college-y, in retrospect

I guess I wouldn’t be explicitly jealous if a friend’s ex-girlfriend greatly resembled Miranda July, but I wouldn’t necessarily be happy about it

And I guess I am just sitting here thinking about how I paid 470 dollars in order to feel like a more legitimate and literary person, and how I’m not regretting that decision at all really,

And how the thought of you “skimming my blog” makes me angry, as I would prefer to imagine you painstakingly reading over each line for the nuances, just imagining what you’re missing.

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If we kiss savagely on the streets, will it turn me into a head of lettuce?

I have a strange pre-occupation with figuring out what’s going on in anyone else’s mind before even contacting them - which is insecure of me. I have a lot of veins on the tops of my hands, and it is the process of making highly specific observations such as this that used to make me feel like I was going to die very soon.

It is a function of reading you that makes me like this, while the function of plunging into a swirling bucket of colors and/or reading me is what will finally let you in.

I am hanging over the side of the bed as I type this,

Hanging over the side of my bed, contemplating whether or not to create a delicious cream-cheese-and-caper bialy at 1:35 in the morning,

Or just smoke cigarettes. I kind of spent 12 months hoarding money which is the sole reason I can currently afford things. Although I do still work, (sometimes,)

I hate it. I’d give anything to “do something which brings meaning unto my days.” I feel like people question my motives even though they don’t have a reason to - is this because i myself question everyone else’s motives? When in reality their motives are probably something like “I just want to get this done so I can have a couple drinks with my friends and then fuck someone.” Like duh.

I wouldn’t work if I didn’t HAVE to — if I didn’t “NEED” rent money and “FOOD” and “SAVING UP FOR THIS *BLEEPIN* SURGERY” that kind of affects me. Maybe I will think of answers to these things soon, because my mother has been saying “it will all come together” but I can only understand that with the utmost impatience; as poorly as a young child’s grip on how time passes during a long car trip

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Things I would Say to Friends and Enemies, As I Think Of Them

We spent a whole day together once and it wasn’t weird. It was actually really fun and affirming of our friendship and the last thing we talked about before I left was famous Russian serial killers, which was perfectly natural in that moment

Fuck you, you suck. I used to think about you too much and now I think of you with what I would consider to be a healthier frequency. Due to this change my reckless impulse to e-mail you has declined approx. 1000%.

It was good to see you at Temple today. Maybe it’s because we’ve known each other so long and I give people I’ve known a long time the benefit of the doubt but, of all the people I know who have made the baffling decision to attend Med school, your reasons are by far the most legitimate.

We hung out and ordered dumplings because you were high and paranoid about whether it was socially acceptable to order cupcakes, my first choice.

We hung out and had a hard cider then ate at a sushi place where neither of us ordered sushi then you lent me air for my bike tires and a needle(!!) that i needed for my bi-weekly shots and your roommate was pretty cool and we want to bake bread and I hope that we do.

That plastic-y black couch will be the death of me, if not the so-called “intellects” that populate the room. Being smart didn’t used to be about watching movies but now it is, I guess.