Problematic

I'm eating ice cream with a fork like a savage. It's something that my father used to do when I was younger. He did it by choice. I just have no way of cleaning a spoon while my combination washer/dryer is running. Not without making my clothes smell like kitchen drain. Saying I do anything like a savage is probably so offensive. I don't know what a non-offensive metaphor would be. I should strive to find one since I know better. The taste of the ice cream is marred by the unnatural feeling of the cold cream around the tines. I had to look up that word. I don't know the parts of a fork on my own. I'm an uncultured wretch. I also learned the word brux this week. I brux often in my sleep. I've bruxed often during the waking hours. It's about grinding your teeth. Or maybe not. My memory is pretty bad. I wonder if Stosbet still reads my blog and how long that will last. I would assume not much longer if so, because they're supposed to finally be over,

Stosbet says she thinks I never loved him. I couldn't if I see my inability to make him happy as a loss. Like the most defiant Princess she insists he is not a prize to be won. I'm tired of all the conversations I have been having lately. I can't imagine my partners enjoy them anymore. My mother's head was shaved this morning, July 8, 2017. She told me yesterday that it was coming out in chunks the size of loofahs. She forgot the word, briefly, and called it "that thing you scrub with". I am attempting to get over you to the detriment of everything else. You're in my lungs. A cut torn and hot red bleeds into every breath so that I spend all my time out of water drowning. My blood is fire. I don't have the time to love you and I don't have the time to love someone new to keep myself from loving you. I know I should want to, but I don't know why. I do know why. Both options seem irrational. I have midterm in less than 24 hours. It has bee

What do I look for in a vindictive act? Something quiet and meaningful mostly to myself. The trouble in my life is always at the cross roads of logic and desire. Logically I won't love Myex forever. I won't want him forever. I don't love or want him now, I just hate losing. And my desire is a flicker in dry California heat, just waiting to erupt. My desire is fury and holy vengeance. Lust. None and all of that is true. Some days I live in a dimly lit, cluttered room and want for nothing. The next episode. A little rest. A nap. But nothing. Some days emotions grab my chest and pull it up to my throat, leaving it there to slowly block all the air and life from my body. These days cause the tremors. I'm a dying eye. Teary, blurred, red, hot, glassy, foggy, taught and covered in the sheen of a dull discomfort. I look at the things that got me to this state and wonder if there is anything that can repair my soul. Did any of it really matter? Does it now? I could die

My parents' home is unbearably hot. It is my parents' home now. It has not been mine for a while. I don't know if I've mentioned this. There was a time, when I first moved to Austin, that I had no real home. I wanted to come back to Houston all the time, but that was because I missed​ having people. I missed my friends. I missed the guy who said we'd get married at the time. I missed having a social circle I could depend on, people I could talk to, a support system. And then I found Myex.  And he wasn't home at first.  But when I wake up confused in the middle of the night I think I'm with him, at home. I never think I'm at my parents house. My apartment is more similar to their house at this point, but I look around and expect to see a door I can enter to find him playing games in the living room. A game on one side and whatever show would keep me up on the other. Sometimes I'd be angry. Sometimes I'd keep myself awake to sp