New Clothes

It isn't so much the feeling of looking down at your hand and seeing your blood mixed with the blood of someone you just met. And it isn't quite this desire to rip open your own face in hopes of some dramatic releasing of crows. And I don't even think it is the possibility of someone making a crown out of newspaper and putting it on your head and letting you lead a parade of one down an empty street.

No.

It is about being comfortable. Being selfish.

I am not treading water anymore.

I am actively pulling myself down

-or-

I am actually going to shore

-but-

I am not standing still.

These things always start one place and end another. They are shit with directions. They are shit with sympathy. They are shit.

I am sorry I broke your heart.

The new me or the new new me

I took a solo cab ride home tonight. During this ride I talked with the cab driver about what I am doing, my age, my desires, and the meaning of words.

All I did was lie.

I told him I was twenty two. He said my glasses made me look thirty. I told him I was a journalism major about to transfer to UCLA. He was confused by this. I told him to make a right on to the street Tribune. He kept asking what that word meant. He was talking about Times, Chronicle, and Daily. He stopped at an ATM so I could take out money. I left the door open just to fuck with him. He dropped me off and I tipped him $3.95. I had to pay into that karmic jar; I work tomorrow.

This is just a symptom.

Why lie to a cab driver? Why not??

I lie to people I care about and to people I could care less about. I rehearse stories and scenes to seem interesting and appealing. The stories are true; and my retelling is flawless. But I feel empty. How many times can I tell someone about the time I dumped a girl because she interrupted my first viewing of Swingers? Apparently one more time.

I'm nothing without my words. I'm shit with out my stories. I'm worthless without my past.

And I guess that puts me at this spot I've been seeping in the last two weeks. Why I'm not writing her, why I don't care about this.

I keep cutting open my chest for someone to see. But I don't know if anyone notices. I bleed enough in my own head.

My emo heart has taken a beating, and I am running out of ways to talk about it.