November 13, 2002
Rail
I stopped breathing a moment, to make sure that he still was.
Melancholy as all hell yesterday, likely due to third week benefits of medication. After spending far too much time in the company of Mike's mother and grandparents, after arguing with my mother about usual nonsense, after taking an unanticipated Art History test, after eating boiled hot dogs for lunch... I wanted nothing more than to lay down with him.
But I couldn't fall asleep.
And he, predictably, did.
And I can't wake him. I go sit in the quasi-dining room in one of the green upholstered chairs and look out the window at the sky, but due to light pollution I cannot see the stars. I pen poetry on the glass with my fingers, wondering if the oil on them will make it visible to the perceptive eye. Tears spring to my eyes, but don't fall, and I shake with cold and sorrow. I can be really silly sometimes, and it's such a frustrating and frequent occurence.
He wakes up, and holds me, and we chatter about cleansers. He makes spaghetti and we lay on the couch and watch Final Fantasy. I fight nausea and exhaustion.
In the truck, on the way back, Avril Lavigne is crooning. Mike looks at me, half serious, and asks, "Do I make your life complicated?"
I put my head in my hands and mumble that he is retarded, but know that the answer to the question is yes.
But such a good complication. And I've decided that I don't give a fuck about most things anymore, that I am not going to stretch myself thin over everyone else's personal problems. I'm talking about my Mother, dears, not you two.
She's insane. And I'm learning to live with that. She needs to swallow the fact that neither my boyfriend, nor myself, are spineless pushovers who were placed upon the earth to appease her every irrational whim. What reason has he to be nice to her? She doesn't like him or respect him or respect the fact that I'm in love with him.
And yet, he bites his tongue in her presence. And he vows to me that he will try to live through this high school bullshit treatment with me. He's not going to kiss her ass. And neither the fuck am I.
I have so much work to do today, and the John Mayer concert tonight. Why is it the only thing I really want to do is blow off the lot of it and hitch a ride to Northern Kentucky and his arms?
Sorry, John, only Rivers is a match for Mike.
astera at 11:12 a.m.