"home" without the quotes

i wonder if/when coming home will feel strange. right now it just feels like a relief. i don't know yet if this is just a honeymoon period or if i really like it here better but for now i feel happier; calmer. but maybe in a few days i'll be sad and bored and lonely. i can't really tell you.


tonight was the first time i've really even thought about it. sitting in my living room after watching closer by myself and i looked at my cat and thought, "oh yeah. i'm at home." except it doesn't really feel like home. but then again it doesn't feel like not home either. i'm still living out of a suitcase right now but everything is fucking familiar as hell.

i feel like i was going somewhere with this post when i began but now i have no idea. anytime i sit down to write anymore this happens. all my ideas escape me and i'm left with this ADD version of my old writing. a frantic shadow of what i once was.

i'm leaving today

three weeks away from this city should do me some good. but i'm scared to go back. i know that i won't be happy there either and then i'll have to come to terms with the fact that it's not NY and it's not NYU and it's not the people here - it's me.

my room did not get all the way clean. there are still dirty dishes in the sink and on my desk and on the table but you can see the floor now. i hope to get back before my roommate and finish the deed.

there will be people i will miss. a few. and i may come back and i may not. i probably will. there aren't really any better options at this point.

i really don't want to go try and hail a taxi and then rush around the airport getting my bag checked and boarding the plane and such. i really just want to sleeeeeeeep. but i guess i got a solid six hours and i'll be fine. still i wish i wasn't traveling alone. it's  the most lonesome thing. then again i kind of like it.


well, guess i best get going. see you soon naptown. goodbye new york.

honestly

i don't want to be in college anymore. i can't function like a normal person and college just amplifies that. i rather try and cut it in some minimum wage job at this point.

i don't want to talk about "you" anymore. i want to forget about "you" forever. i want to exist seperatley from all that "you" is, says, does.

i don't really care about anyone. i'm just as selfish as everyone else i hate. i don't feel anyone really cares about me either. this is both terrifying and comforting.

i want to disappear. i want to cease existing. i don't want to have to feel anything anymore.

honestly, i want to die because i'm already only half-alive.

midnight coffee, with cream and nostalgia

I miss the sound of your voice but when I check the calls on my cell phone I see it’s only been four days since that night I called at four thirty in the morning. I was having a panic attack; couldn’t sleep. And you picked up the phone. I loved you that night when you didn’t judge me but just let me lay everything, all my craziness, out on you. Still I say I hate you for silly reasons. I am insane. I am so insane with you. I didn’t know who else to text as I sat awkwardly across from my roommate and my friend as they melted OxyContin over a spoon. The whole process unfolded as I sat stumbling on my computer. It starts with the inexact science of breaking up the pill, melting it, and adding water. The next step is scarf around the arm, pulled tightly to push up the veins; followed by the finding of the vein and the insertion of the needle. The needle is pulled out to see if you get blood and if you do then it’s push push push the needle all the way in. I asked you, “Have you ever seen anyone shoot up before?” You texted back promptly with the reply: “I wont have this conversation.” When did you get righteous all of a sudden? I don’t understand your moral code. I don’t understand your intentions. I don’t understand you. I explain I’m not really choosing to watch. You don’t text back. And then the stupid line slips out of my fingers and onto the phone subconsciously. I hit the send button without a thought and the “I hate you” message is sent through satellites to you, 700 miles away. Later I apologize with a picture text of a tiny Menorah with four candles and a paper snowflake in the background. “Sorry for being mean. Happy Chanukah” it says. You must think, no, you must know I’m crazy. Like I told you at four thirty last Saturday - sitting in the B staircase and shivering - and like I’ve texted you a thousand times, I want to come home. My room has turned into some kind of pseudo-heroin den - a dorm room version complete with a spoon caked in remnants of oxy and blood in the basin of the sink. Papers and clothes and dirty dishes and shoes and trash make an obstacle course of the floor. Strands of Christmas lights are taped chaotically to the wall. Some are only put it up halfway. Pictures of porn are taped on the door. My wall is a collage of posters and clippings from magazines. My roommate’s side has posters, art prints, and some piece of art a boyfriend made her out of a record arranged on the walls anesthetically. I am driven crazy by the clutter and the chaos. I can’t focus, I can’t work. Tonight I’m dealing with it by ignoring any schoolwork I should have already finished to listen to music, half-stoned. Tomorrow I will probably go back to my constant state of panic. I will probably attempt to clean and become agitated. I will probably not finish my work. At this moment however, I don’t give a fuck.

split existence, you've got a hold on me

we talk about moving to nebraska and having seventeen children. you say you already know the perfect place. i say seventeen is a lot of names to think of. coco, cricket, icky, buckley... but still you do not love me and i turn my back to you and stare at the wall. you don't want my visit to end like this. what am i thinking? i tell you but you don't return the favor and eventually i fall into a light sleep. when i wake up later i panic and just want to touch you. i turn over and kiss your sleeping mouth. you wake up and kiss me back. and i feel closer to you than to anyone else but i guess that's really not saying much.

we drive past all my old haunts on the way to your apartment and i tell you stories of every place we pass. sitting in that parking lot on shrooms. buying supplies for garlic mashed potatoes and macaroni casserole with becca at that kroger. i don't tell you how i once stopped at that gas station to buy you cigarettes. actually my friend bought them. i was only seventeen. but i think about it as we drive by.

i am surprised by you. surprised by how you text and call me so regularly. surprised by how you pick me up after work even when you have to work again early the next morning. surprised by the two R.E.M. cd's you buy for me at half price book. handing them to me and saying, here these are yours. surprised by how your hand brushes my hip in the aisles of cd's. and how in your room you kiss me without prompting.

my mom says i don't look skinnier but you can tell that i am. and i notice that you are skinnier too. you're always afraid you're dying. you've already made your funeral mix. i'm always afraid i'm going insane. i've already planned my suicide. you ask me if i'm happy and i say no. you say you're pretty happy now and i can't decide if this is reassuring or devastating.

when i'm sitting in becca's house i think i can't wait to get back to ny. i think that at least things are a little better there even though it's not easy to explain. i could say because my friends at home are all doing heroin but my friends here do heroin. and meth. and all kinds of other drugs. but i guess there's something fatalistic about indy. here i don't know where i'm going or where i'll end up and even though that's scary and frustrating. but in indy there aren't as many possibilities.

once i'm back in ny i start to go crazy again. i feel like i'm in a constant state of panic. i might fail my classes. and then i'll have to go back to indy. maybe that's why i'm going insane here. because it's not permanent. or maybe it's the impending failure. following me like my shadow. breathing over my shoulder. growing stronger every day i skip class and don't do my homework.

three more weeks. three weeks to try and save myself. three weeks until i see you again. three weeks until i can finally breathe again and three weeks until i can have real feelings again because here in ny every emotion is somehow cheapened and the time passes faster so that i can barley keep up.