week 15: bicycle

an aside, i drew this years ago, most likely around 03 or 04...

i guess i could try and force this into bycicle.

two people running through things.

over and over again.

so i guess i will.

some of you know the begining, some of you know the end, and many of you know the aftermath.

esp. if you have paid any attention to this blog.

and, and , ill leave you all with this, something that i would have rather sold, but whatever, id rather it be seen than not.

Last weekend

They say your college years are supposed to be the ones best of your life.
This situation does nothing to inspire any hope for my future.
I’m not really here, she’s talking and I not hearing anything that’s coming out of her mouth.
I feel as if I’d just been hit, really hard in the head. That same, dazed and detached feeling that you get when you wake up in a strange room or…. having been knocked unconscious.
I struggle to find my bearings in this situation.
Inside my heart isn’t breaking.
What it’s doing is worse.
I can feel it tearing, ripping apart fiber by fiber.
Inside I can feel that old familiar sensation of cold heat numb my body.
I wonder if I could will my heart to stop beating.
She stopped talking, she does that. She’ll be going on and on and out of nowhere she’ll stop, then when you start to speak she yells at you for interrupting her.
So between having learned not to talk until you’re sure she’s finished and being in a state complete disbelief, I remain silent.
I’m having trouble breathing.
I’m having trouble looking at her.
I find myself instead staring at the clock. She’s talking again and is saying that i can stay the night there, with her.
Deep down I wonder whether it’s more out of an actual desire to have me there or that she just doesn’t want to drive me home.
I suspect it’s mostly the latter the feel oddly used.
I don’t want to be here, with her, like this.
Not anymore.
I can’t accept these terms.
All I want right now is to be drunk, disconnected, to crawl into a bottle or be in bed with someone I don’t love, don’t care about, someone who doesn’t have this capability, this capacity to hurt me.
Mostly she seems to be taking her time with this.
I can feel her eyes burning into side of my head. I haven’t looked at her for a while now. I remember that it wasn’t so long ago that it was difficult for me to keep my eyes off of her.
I turn my head and as soon as we make eye contact she turns away.
I crack some stupid joke about how it’s taken this to look at me.
It falls flat in the throbbing silence and I realize how hollow and forced it sounds.
My eyes are burning, I’m tired and sober.
I feel that tears well up.
I say that I’m not going to argue a case for myself, to give her reasons to stay. To beg.
I say I’m not going to ask why.
I feel myself shutting down, cell by cell, parts of me that I worked so hard to nurture dying. My defense mechanisms that have fought so hard against slamming down like blast doors.
For once I did everything right.
I didn’t push.
I took it a slow.
I gave her space.
I had ample temptation an opportunity yet remained faithful.
I had begun to believe in the possibility of a future.
Over there, at the end of the couch buried under a blanket, a million miles away, she’s talking.
She can’t trust her emotions when they are always changing, uncertain.
She doesn’t know why she feels differently about me, about us, she just does.
She says it’s not someone else, as if that makes this any easier.
She says that she’s tired of feeling sad, fucked up, etc.
She says she wants to feel “normal”, whatever the hell that means.
She says she loves me, but that it’s changed somehow.
She’s unable to expand on this.
She asks me what I want.
What I want.
I don’t see how this fucking matters.
And through the shock anger shows its face.
I say OK.
Say you know what I want.
I say I want to be with you.
I say I want to grow old and change with you.
I say that I want to love you and… and…
I begin to cry, and then she starts crying as well and I feel like an asshole.
I reach out to hold her, to comfort her and she pulls away.
I watch her cry and realize we’re weeping for two different reasons, me for us and her for herself.
Deep down this hurts worst of all.
I look at the clock and it’s 1:57 in the morning.
I realize my chances for alcohol tonight has dropped to zero.
I light a cigarette and surround myself with smoke.
“Well,” I say, “at least we had a good run.”
I pause.
“No, I guess we didn’t, did we.”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
In my head and quoting poetry, quoting lyrics.
I’m identifying through other people’s words.
We hope that you choke.
How I don’t know what I should do with my hands when I talk to you.
How you don’t know where you should look so you look at my hands.
And we stood at your door with your hands on my hips and you kissed me.
And I knew that you meant it.
That you meant it.
I fight this with everything that I am.
She offers to put on a movie.
The last thing I want to do is connect a movie to this moment, already it’s hard to walk through a video store without seeing timeline of failed relationships.
Holly: the princess bride, the matrix, snake eyes, episode one, brown eyes.
Heather: revenge of the nerds, star trek 4, anything Adam Sandler, green eyes.
Hillary: spaceballs, Dracula 2000, diehard, family man, brown eyes.
Allison: pokemon the movie(don’t ask), Moulin rouge, Harry potter, brown eyes.
And this is just the tip of the iceberg, off the top of my head. I’m sure if I were to put more thought to this I could assign nearly the entire history of cinematography to some girl.
I don’t need any more random reminders.
Music is the same way.
Tori Amos.
The Cure.
Smashing pumpkins.
Peter Murphy.
nine inch nails.
Songs to fuck to.
I realize that listening to the downward spiral will be difficult for now on.
In my head I’m there in the tattoo parlor on Haight, waiting for hours while she gets her stars.
I’m in bed watching her sleep, still not believing that she’s really there.
And in its July, and we’re drinking corona’s on my mom’s porch having random stupid conversations, back when sexual tension was measured in her hitting me in the arm every 2 minutes.
In my head, we’re bed THAT night and she says I feel so right, so good, so perfect.
I said that it was like coming home.
She said that she needed this, she needed me.
From across the couch, a million miles away, she says she doesn’t want to lose me, she doesn’t want me to disappear from her life.
I say it’s not like I’m dying – but I am.
And it’s the first time I’ve lied to her.
As a given the distance it’s unlikely they will see much of each other.
The calls will become less and less frequent and eventually not all.
I tell her that this is on her terms.
And I beg her to get help, to work her shit out, don’t do this to the next guy.
I feel another door slam shut.
Another part of me dies.
A look at my fingernails and I realize I’ve bit them until they bled.
She says we’re redefining the nature of our relationship.
I say like getting engaged, only opposite.
She says engagements are usually happy things.
Ideally that’s not the point.
I asked her if there’s any hope, any chance, down the line, in the future.
I regret this immediately.
She says not for to be like it was.
That clear.
That certain.
That final.
Through the tears as to drive me home.
She says again that I don’t have to go.
I say yes, I do
I light another cigarette-I am that cigarette, I realize how much we have in common.
And then she says that she has beer.
I’m angry her for feeling the need to bribe me, but I’m also sober and in pain.
So between gulps of beer I regret having come up for the weekend.
I can’t afford to fall apart.
I resent her timing.
Resent having to deal with this on top of everything else.
After the third beer I stand up, I’ve had my moment of clarity.
Two years ago I would’ve stayed in slept with her, took whenever she was willing to give, in whatever context.
But I’m not him, that loser anymore.
Deep down I can feel him fighting for rebirth.
I tell her that I’m a pretty terrific guy.
That she was lucky to have me.
I’ve never said those words before.
I say that she’s losing more than she knows.
I say that I want to go home now.
She starts crying.
I need to be where she wasn’t.
I say that she could call me later in the week, though I doubt she will.
I walk out the door.
I am dead.
And you sitting there
Are possibly and justifiably wondering what was the point of having read this.
Now, now you know exactly how I feel.
What was the point?

She’s behind me, on the porch, her porch, and she’s fucking beautiful.
And then I realize that of nowhere, somehow I’m aroused. How can I hate someone, been so much pain, and still want of fuck them?
We’re breaking up and I’m addressing her with my eyes.
I joke that we could go back to her room for a goodbye fuck.
That I’ve never had one and am admittedly curious about the concept.
She says who says that this is goodbye?
And now I’m even more confused.
I tell myself I was mostly kidding any ways… Mostly.

so some one once said that everyone had one batman comic to write, id go a bit further and say that everyone has at least one story to tell.

for whatever it might be worth... this was/is mine.

and dont say i never gave you anything:

"I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You"

Well I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
'Cause falling in love just makes me blue.
Well the music plays and you display your heart for me to see,
I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me.
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
Well the room is crowded, people everywhere
And I wonder should I offer you a chair?
Well if you sit down with this old clown,
Take that frown and break it, before the evening's gone away,
I think that we could make it,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
Well the night does funny things inside a man.
These old tomcat feelings you don't understand,
Well I turn around to look at you; you light a cigarette,
I wish I had the guts to bum one, but we've never met.
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
I can see that you are lonesome just like me,
And it being late, You'd like some some company.
Well I turn around to look at you, and you look back at me,
The guy you're with has up and split the chair next to you's free.
And I hope that you don't fall in love with me.
Now it's closing time, the music's fading out.
Last call for drinks, I'll have another stout.
Well I turn around to look at you; you're nowhere to be found,
I search the place for your lost face,
Guess I'll have another round.
And I think that I just fell in love with you.
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