An Incomplete List...

of things and situations and a couple of relationships that I might have left to die on an operating table or some sort of metaphor that has nothing to do with how things actually are.

(as a post-introduction preface I will give you this: I am moving into a house, parts of the apartment are gone, headed that direction. I spent the evening discussing the merits of short story writers around a beer pong table. It doesn't sound as bad as it seems.)

(as a second post-introduction preface I will let it be known that I am very often left defending my choices on life, liberty, and the pursuit of short story authors. I am also left petting the cat while other people are asleep. This could very easily turn into a rant about someone, but they are asleep, and it is not right, and it is not worth it, so I will pet the cat and move on.)

Tonight I have decided that bullet points are not cut out for me. This list will run long and deep and have an end at some point. It might be worth it, I will definitely feel better. Its 3:30 in the morning, so if it doesn't make sense I will explain it, just ask.

Every time I look at you your eyes are big and I know that if it were not for me you would not eat and you would shit on a pile of shit you shit days ago. You scratch and bite, and seem afraid, but you sit and sleep next to me. When I am not around, I don't know what you do, that is between you and whoever decided that you should be alive for my (and others) comfort. But when I am here, I know what you are doing.

We fight, a lot. About everything. And I try hard, harder than I have ever tried with anyone, over anything, to make it work. I feel wrong a lot of the times. It is because there is nothing thrown back. There are small meaningless jabs about things I can't control, and they hurt. But the things you don't say hurt as much as the things you specifically assign to me. I am always wrong, and I don't do enough, even though I try so hard. I cant talk about this anymore. It hurts.

You are this ideal, this ideal thing that doesn't exist. You ebb and flow. You drown me then make me drown in drought. Things get more complicated, because they are already complicated. I wish you didn't have a face, because sometimes your face makes me cry, and sometimes your face I don't even know.

Every time. Every Single Time. Everysingletime I have stood in front of you and not kissed you for how much you have saved my life, I deserve to suffer a hundred years. This list is long. Very long. Again, I am sorry.

There are stacks of money that I owe people. Some of them are real people I have known since seventh grade, some of them are faceless corporations. But I owe them, and it makes it hard to get up in the morning, because I know that I will make some money that day, and it is never enough.

60640. I owe you. I didn't try. I failed you, and me, and my friends. I took advantage, I am sorry. I'll be back, to see you, for real this time, I promise. will you hold me to it?

My passion. I don't know if you are too much. I know I mean it, that is for sure, but I don't like explaining you. My heart has all these things running around in it, all these people that it cares for, all these things that make it smile. But it is intense...

And I get sick of apologizing for it being intense.
I am sick of apologizing for things that I mean, even if someone thinks they are wrong.
Because sometimes I am wrong, but I mean it, and that is something.

I don't like not being taken serious. I don't like being ignored. I don't like being made to felt dumb. I don't like doing all the work, in anything. I don't like the way I have been being made to feel. I don't like supporting with no support. I don't like not being creative. I don't like how things have been.


But this is all I will do.

I am sorry to you, and more sorry to me.


So the apartment turns to ice and I will sleep in the common area. Will life be fine in the morning? Yeah, it always seems to be. Will I be? No, not so much, not at all. I'm good at hiding things. It seems to be a trait of my parents, both sides. Do I want to be rescued? From the bed I have made myself?

Yes?

Will I get out of it?

Probably not. I hear it is pretty cozy, I think I'll check it out again soon.

In here (the place I am pointing at, in the middle of my chest) it makes sense.
I hope no one got left behind.

What a glorious Monday, yeah?