and I can't believe it?

Dr. Irvine (Jill?) didn't post feedback to my midterm. The midterm was weak, Shayna Daitch even said "It could be better", which seems a foolish thing to say, but the midterm was weak. Maybe strictly from the perspective of what I "should" turn it, but even that doesn't make sense. I couldn't think of a better word than "post", and initially I didn't like it, but quickly following I thought about mail, sending things through the post, and I liked the word again, I think.

Madeline isn't saying a lot, but she says she received feedback.

Lindsay Pease hasn't provided me with any feedback, but the context is different because she sent me a nice message and I responded with a long and perhaps "needy" message and she hasn't responded to it and I think (hope) maybe she is preparing something grand, but I think probably it's more than on her hierarchy of who to care about I am low and unimportant, and I think that's a redundant thing to say.

And Kate Sheppard is someone that I've ignored, but the context is different. There was an interview for the newsletter and I responded after a delay and I included a metaphor as my answer to "What will you do with your degree" and I was mostly proud of it, and she didn't include it in her "write up" for the interview, but I still think what she did was rather good, and she asked me to respond and instead I didn't. I hope she just posts what she has, or maybe even I hope that she doesn't. I think I just hope that she doesn't mind that I never responded.

And I wanted to say something about suicide, even though when I talked to Ginger? Her name couldn't have been Ginger! It was Stephanie, although I don't think I ever used her name-she had so much OU paraphernalia and she talked about her cats or her plants and I think that's when we were supposed to bond. Tomatoes, she was growing tomatoes. And that was probably before Toulouse ran away, I don't think we talked him running away, just when he was around, but what I wanted to talk about was the first meeting, the one Lynn Lewis had offered to walk me to (and she was so fond of the paper I wrote about "depression"), and she asked about suicide, and I think if I had said something about it, --- for some reason I have these images of ET and I don't think I saw that movie more than once, but when all of those people in hazmat suits and big tunnels of plastic (am I making this up), but all of this scientific -I think I'm trying to say that it stops being real, or it becomes too real, I don't know if it has anything to do with "reality", but there was just something scary about the way the question was posed, so I said "no", and of course I could never talk about it after that.

But really there's just this moment I'm trying to "expel" or "get out" or "articulate" and I don't even remember any of it, I remember the memory of it, what I actually remember is hiding in the car, I even think I called Branden, but Caitlyn and Shagah knew precisely what to do and they held him as he cried and they waved down the police, although it was the firemen who showed up first, but that seems too surreal, it was all surreal, and I don't remember who told me because I know that I stayed in the car until it was over. I stayed in the car when his parents came, no, I have this all wrong. They invited his roommate over (isn't it terrifying/beautiful how pronouns are ruining what I'm trying to say) to their place and I don't think I ever even made eye contact with him, (even later when we saw him in the library and Caitlyn talked about nothing, but it was shiny and plastic, this conversation of nothingness they exchanged and it felt safe and detached, even after her holding him when he was so broken), but all I'm trying to say is Caitlyn told me, probably much later, but she told me a fireman had said something about "There must be something in the water this is the [number] [suicide] this week" and I can't believe it.

Please don't read this, I just convinced/promised myself that actually sending it to you would make existence quantifiably more interesting.

I think it was junior year specifically, because that was my least "fulfilling" year- I had debate, band, all of those ap classes, even symphony in the morning; I was very tired, unhappy and felt like I didn't "want to keep doing" what I was doing. But in high school generally, I have the memory that I would tell myself that the only reason I was going to school was because maybe I'd get to see you.

I'm "pretty sure" there were some mornings where I'd forget to say something like, "Maybe you'll get to see him today!" and I would just go to school without any real reason, and maybe that's why I've so convinced myself it was a lie. I remember thinking, "You know, I woke up every morning with the hopes of seeing you" because it was always in the context of a fantasy; I was telling you, sometime in the future in a well-decorated apartment; or I was just telling a friend; or maybe I was writing it in my memoirs. I think I mostly "just had the thought" of getting out of bed only with the hopes of seeing you, I don't really remember experiencing reluctance at waking up transform into enthusiasm because I thought of maybe running into you in the halls. Maybe once.

I feel confused. I wanted to write this because I felt so empty and worthless, meaningless, the universe felt so arbitrary and it was 8 am and I was crawling into bed, defeated, and just let my mind wander. I remember thinking, "These thoughts are interesting", although I don't remember what thoughts prompted that thought. Eventually I was thinking about, although I didn't label it at the time, back when my life wasn't as consumed with detachment and meaninglessness. This era, loosely defined from 7th grade until my spring semester freshman year, was contextualized by specific romantic urges. There was always someone I'd think "endlessly" of.

And it was mostly a secret, until it wasn't. But still I tried not to talk about it because even now I think of how embarrassed I am. I'm so humiliated, in nearly every interaction I have, at the thought of mentioning any attraction I've ever had. Even now I'm afraid to type the word "obsession" which is what I think it really was (and is), and as I'm writing this message I'm convincing myself that having a "romantic obsession" is really what gave my life "meaning" in this era loosely defined from 7th grade until my spring semester freshman year.

And isn't that interesting?

Cognitive Dissonance

'I "should" be falling asleep.' I try to think sarcastically, but really I'm terrified of when obligations will want me to wake up and I won't believe in them. I never believe them (I seldom believe them). Sleeping Garrison always thinks it's some sort of exaggeration and everything just needs to "take a step back" or "chill out" or something. I like Sleeping Garrison a little bit better than the Garrison that's afraid that he's not going to sleep. That one is me. I like the me that isn't me more than the me that is me. Me=person typing. Or it can mean Garrison. I don't know if "or" is the right word. I don't know if any of those words were the ones I meant. Probably both. I feel like I just keep typing words and regretting them a little right before they finish. And then a whole lot more when the sentence is done. Like when I'm typing the words I think, "Yes, you're getting somewhere. Just keep trying and these small failures will add up to a Success". When that doesn't happen, I pause sadly; I think I just keep hoping it'll happen eventually. Like at the paragraph. But I think I'm done now. "Fuck."

I wanted to write about why I want to email Tao Lin. I want to email him something like,

I want to hide in your bed, and I want you to be comforted by that when you see my body under the quilt my grandmother and I made and it was the only thing I had with me when you picked me up at the airport.

But when I think that, I think "at best", he would maybe just email me back something interesting and maybe send me some interesting things. It would, if everything went "according to 'plan'", be "just another relationship" that doesn't include touching. I think that caressing someone's (my) cheek is a very good thing to happen. Once Branden cried, but he was lying on top of me so all of his tears fell on my face. It felt warm. I should have been crying, or, I think he would have been comforted if I was crying, too. I think even I wanted to cry, but wasn't. Not as much as he was anyway. But I felt relieved because his tears kept falling on my face and he would rub his face on mine so both of our faces were smeared with tears and maybe some of them were mine.

I told that story because I want someone's tears on my face. But I don't get that. So I send a lot of text messages and read Tao Lin's blog and John Campbell's webcomic and I listen to music. When I'm falling asleep, or sometimes while I'm in the process of reading or listening, I think about emailing these people and "endearingly" requesting of them to take me with them into their lives. To let me sleep in their beds and maybe help with the cleaning. I'm entirely convinced that if someone would just cry tears onto my cheeks when I wanted to cry, but wasn't really, but was comforted when the tears would smear "evenly" on both of our faces, I would be satisfied with "life" and everything.

I think that's what I wanted to say.

But I just remembered that it isn't.

I wanted to mention that I'm trying to get Branden to fulfill all of my "desires" for "social interaction". But he's "long-distance", and sometimes I don't have very good service. And I don't know where to go from there. So I pretend like "celebrities" will fill in the gaps.

Things happen in "my life"

There are classes. They look fine, really. Splendid courses. I could learn a lot. Of course I've already taken Dr. Irvine's class, but when reading off the list to my mother, I hesitated and told her it was "different". I don't like mentioning failure, and they don't even dress it up as nothin' different. Dr. Irvine has given me an F and a D and a lot of moral support. I was planning on finishing that final, planned on her fixing up my gpa, advising me (I still can't enroll until she does something on her computer) and maybe writing me glowing recommendations.

But I'd really rather do this. Or maybe even they have an internship. But I don't know how to run away. Don't know if I need to talk to someone about getting the internship to count for course credit or something. In my head, I'd write an incredibly personal cover letter and I'd talk about my hopelessness, my detachment, my inability to succeed. I'd hope I'd come off "intelligent" and "endearing".

I dreamt about running feminism in debate, but I think an unpaid internship with the aclu prison project seems more "authentic". Feel like debate is for a bunch of "insincere" "ugly people" who are "fifteen minutes away from" playing dungeons & dragons every thursday night over over-cooked spaghetti squash with cinnamon and "brown" sugar.

Still lonely.

Oviedo

I want to believe in the narrative structure of my empty thoughts. Of course empty isn't the right word for it and I blame the computer screen, even with the sunshine turned down. I don't know what it's called. It's not bright. Brightness.

When I'm angry and alone, I think. I guess I always think but a lot of the times it sounds like this. Annoying, bulky, too many Ts, unselfconscious.

From Moab I was inspired. I wanted to write about my family or place.

But in bed that next night, I listened to Blind Pilot and fantasized about Kellen.

About reading these lyrics on my face, to him. I had a contented and maybe amused facial expression. I told him secrets unintentionally.

God, does anyone else just hate my words?

They're so fucking pretentious.

Why can't that stop?

Why can't I write like I think?

I can't think with this computer screen.

I can't write with my thoughts.

I want to claw at the veins in my forearms. It's less of a thought and more of an image, and a visceral impulse.

I want a tone like the one in my thoughts. The word "warm" won't go away in my attempt to describe it. I think it's closer to orange, with the sun turned down. When the jalapeno is roasted. Chipotle, but without those connotations. Mixed with watermelon and hot sauce. Don't think about the sweetness, but of the butcher that hates watermelon. Combine her with the distaste towards the man that hates pumpkin.

Maybe all I want is the color of pumpkin. but without ever thinking that word.

I prefer sensual to sexual. Strictly in tone. Maybe it's the keys.

They're square and pretentious. Or precocious. I don't have a grasp of the different shades of meaning. It's Mac. They're Apple keys. The white ones. Nobody can write their thoughts with these keys. Excluding the type of person that can. Who knows what they write about. Presumably celebrity gossip, indie music, and technology.

They probably don't write about whispers. Clever, subtle whispering about existential despair.

Those don't get written about on macs.

I'm not done because I want to write about Kellen, but I also want to mention all of the veins in my forearms snapping like the silk wrapped around corn on the cob. Pull, rip, dispose. Compost.

Kellen isn't veins. It's just that his name is lying around the house.

I fantasized. I (used to?) believe that whenever I fantasized I was creating an alternate universe where those fantasies occurred. In concrete reality it means I can never experience what I fantasized about, this universe is defined by the absence of the material conditions of the alternate realities I was creating.

And Blind Pilot.

There was the missed connections posting.

But when I think concretely about him, it's sexual but not in a way I can compellingly describe.

Sensual in the tone, or context. goal?

I think it's mostly about the end of Branden.

He provided the narrative ability to think about the limitations of Branden.

What are we doing?

Now I want to be done because I itch.

He's a Very Important Person

Is anything any easier that you're so "good looking"?

what?

Ha...uh. You know when you probably shouldn't talk to people but you accidentally do?

what?

I always notice when you're online. I don't know what the point of facebook is, really. I don't know why you would agree to my friend request. But you are incredibly good looking, almost unreasonably so. Also there's this "awesome" factor to take into account. SO sometimes I don't feel good about a lot of things, and right now is one of those times. I noticed you online, I was overcome by my curiosity. I needed to know if you always feel good about a lot of things.

And now I feel "stupid"

ha

well, no.

i very often do not feel good about a lot of things

think my looks are insignificant far as that goes

But aren't they ever just a little comforting?

and think that your infatuation has less to do with my looks than my having been a debate role model to you

You mean to say you aren't as good looking as I make you out to be?

no as far as feeling lonely, impotent, and alienated go, no comfort at all.

What is a comfort to those things, for you, of course?

and yes, i mean to say that your attraction to me has as much to do with admiration as anything else.

what?

As far as feeling lonely, impotent, and alienated.

what comforts me from being so?

I think that's what I'd like to know.

Unless I'm crossing certain boundaries.

nothing really. or very little. or nothing at all.

that all just comes.

The comfort?

no, the discomfort

and it probably doesnt get easier.

Well that last bit was probably almost unnecessary.

Unless you find that knowledge comforting.

Well, I do feel a little better. It's probably that infatuation, or admiration, or I don't really know. But you seem very Important, and you spoke with me for a bit. So I feel a little less "small". In a relative sort of fashion.

A week later and he refuses to show

why?

Why do you get to decide that?

Everyone keeps telling me that this is just what guys do, that guys are so terrible. But I looked into your eyes! and you listened to me for so long. And when you left the week seemed sincere. And I think you're actually a very good person.

You have to be a good person. And I can't believe you want me to feel like this. With my blood turning to poison, my chords in my chest turning black. Why won't you just make it make sense to me.

you make me feel like scum

I mean, like, I was so excited Sunday night because it kept being closer to monday. And all week I've been waiting to see you. This morning, I woke up too early and couldn't think of anything to do to wait for your call, so I read some Kafka, fell back asleep. I decided 2 was a reasonable time to expect you to wake up, then by 4 you'd call you could be over by 6? I was planning my day accordingly. I kept having these beautiful daydreams.

munch. munch. munch

i mean, you just made me feel so good and safe and warm. And everything was so good.

And then I turned into this obsessive, desperate guy.

And I started realizing all of these terrible faults!

Character flaws.

They're bubbling up from every ounce of my being, I see them on my breath. Can feel them in the veins of my palm.

It's so weird to be ignored.

And I send messages to all of these good looking guys, I have such media-dictated high standards.

And of course they aren't attracted to me, because they've grown up with the same media.

And everyone wants someone that looks like they do, I assume they're the top.

But they're probably being rejected, too, right?

Just like I reject people.

But then there are the people that I'm not rejecting, because they aren't requesting. And I'm not making any advances on them, because they're just in my league. Or...the same league society says we are..or however that works. I haven't worked it out.

But we all thing we're much better looking than everyone else, when really we're all as attractive. We're all 6s. And we want 9s.

But we don't get 9s.

And I think you're a 9. And you were in my bed.

And you don't want to be there anymore.

And it's...there's this terrible lie we all tell ourselves. And we know it's a lie, but we live in it, constantly being disappointed. Then all of a sudden this whole world we've created is true, and someone says we aren't ugly, or uninteresting. That the problems we are constantly thinking about aren't petty or redundant.

And this whole terrible lie seems real. And beautiful. And ... then you get to wrench this world away from me.

This lie come true, my world torn to shreds. And I don't even know how to live in the lie anymore, so of course I'm obsessive.

Because I can't just go back to the lie after I've held it in my hand, known it for what it was, called it by it's name.

I am only left with convincing you.

And just as unlikely as that lie that I was living in since..puberty? Since my first crush in seventh grade.

Just as unlikely as that, I'm still waiting for you.

Hoping for you.

I want cute boy to come back

The fourth one, the one on the left?, the blue one, that one was Branden's and it started to sting when the other five felt safe with you. There's a part of me that wants to explain because this is public, but you know what I'm talking about. The second one, the one where you knew where it was, on the right, it was orange. That one that was attracted to you. The big red one in the middle was soothed when I saw Beauty in your eyes.

I'm Okay that you left. I think you may have done some wink at the door, but even your brow seemed to be involved so it was Sweet and Sincere. Part of you seemed to hesitate at the bike so I think I'm okay with the suddenness. I want to say you spent the night, but really we just talked for a few hours this morning then took a nap.

Thank you.

I put my basil in the fridge after you left to keep it Fresh. I fear it's too late.

He's tearing me up inside

I've heard all of those words before.

When I called to ask for support I was happy and shining and buoyant.

She gave me an A even though I said everything wrong, but never spoke when you required it.

It was surprising and fulfilling and something I haven't felt in so long and I called to feel the warmth of your sun.

And you were watching a movie and I distracted you and it was biblical so you probably wish I would have waited, but still.

You're my "best friend" and when I explain that this semester might be a shining success and maybe I'm "a star", you say professors won't change grades for me and I can accept that, until I can't. Because Jill was supposed to and I've been waiting for that, and if I can't see her, I technically can't come back.

But even more it's scary and big and not just the writing like with the military, but with the thinking and growing and understanding, the flashlight on the dark spot in my mind than I know now is dark, but I really think it's safer not to break that..

once I started to and you listened as I cried, I think you wanted me to keep going, but I stopped because I was mad, but also because I was humiliated and that humiliation caused so much anger, but it was still stronger than any resultant activism or passion or grace.

So I stopped and I left it there, slowly bleeding in my mind. And you thought all was well, so I should just go back to my family, open up for the summer, you can't leave your mom.

And you used those words I've heard tens of times when I wouldn't and the pain was real then, probably more real than now, and when you talk about that pain it sounds so stupid, but I'm not pretending it isn't there because it's easy to belittle. And I could feel it again, you were treating me like I don't want to be treated, and I can't say how it is I'd like to be treated, I can just say stop until you try something else and when I was trying I could hear you not understanding, or maybe caring, but I'm afraid of admitting it's that one because you're my Sonia and I don't think she'll ever stop caring, so how can you.

Regardless, I ... I don't think I'll write, and I can blame it on you because it's easy, but you were just a reminder that I was never able to. I suppose once upon a time you could have said something shining and warm that would have fit how I was feeling when you called me, some sort of trampoline boosty spring like on sonic where I jump and then you keep me jumping and all of a sudden I have Good Grades, and I get to come back,

but this time with activism and passion and grace and all of a sudden I'm "a star" like I started out being but stopped because it started to hurt, the burning or the loneliness or maybe just because I'm lazy. But the last one is the easiest to say and the hardest to believe.

This once upon a time never came, I guess sorta like you. Not the adult version because I guess you liked that, not enough for seconds (or would it be fifths, or is that even an accurate count).

I guess I'm just trying to say I'm fragile and you've cracked me.

And fuck you for that.

And fuck you for making me too concerned to be able to tell you. I love you completely.