Don’t stalk me today, I don’t say these things to your face.

I said I love you in my sleep. You didn’t hear me, because your breathing was steady and slow next to me, but I woke up to the sound of my voice. I immediately recanted, I recoiled in fear that you would run, and I really didn’t mean it anyway.

Your awareness of my hands as they scan your flesh, the way your voice changes when you realize you’re letting me in. . .your battle, your fight, makes me afraid for you. At times I feel like breaking away, unsure of what it is we’re doing. Other times, like when you told me you held her all night, I want to latch on to you and make you give it all.

I try to be your friend, see, I try to listen when she hurts you, or when you doubt things, especially us. I try to listen objectively, like it doesn’t penetrate my shell, my own impervious wall, but it’s so obvious what a fake I am, the way my lips purse and my hands fall away. I’m a fraud at times.

We’re both bumbling, aren’t we? Just tripping along hoping for some grand answer or finale. The big fight. The horrible turn of events. The cold shoulder. The dead look in my eye. . . in yours. Though on one hand, I’m beginning to think that relationships don’t always have to have stages, or progressions. Perhaps people can just coexist, entirely free within their orbs, yet connected in ways too. I don’t know, seems I always have to analyze things. But then again, so do you.

I’ll follow you into the dark.

Self-Loathing.

This is going to be one of those “poor me” posts.  I can feel it.

I just don’t understand some things.  Like how, for example, someone can date me for say, a year and a half, and never once put my picture on his Myspace.  Yes, stupid Myspace.  It’s a simple, shallow thing, but for some reason the lack of admission of his love for me always kind of bothered me.

And now, after two weeks, he’s got her picture up there.  Just like that.

Two things cross my mind.  One, is the affair.  That would be kind of a slap in his ex’s face to have my picture up.  That’s a simple enough, pretty painless explanation, and one I’d like to stick with.

Then there’s the self-doubting explanation.  That perhaps he thinks me shallow.  That as pretty as he always said I was, maybe I just didn’t truly fulfill him, ya know?  Because this girl, sorry to say it, is not attractive at all.  Yet. . .he finds her beautiful, and I am happy for him because of that.  But it makes me feel like perhaps he thought me unattractive on the inside. 

Am I making sense?  Maybe it doesn’t make sense, but it hurt me to see her picture up there, so matter of factly, as if he was completely unaware that it always kind of hurt me that my picture was never there.

And it’s so stupid, because I don’t want him back.  I’m very happy in my freedom, and my current affections, it just felt like a little slap in the face.  A stupid Myspace picture. 

Myspace is the devil.

Fin.

And what of intent, dear friend? Was it enough that I couldn’t look him in the eye when I walked away, unspoken hope lingering in my footsteps? As hope turned to disdain, once again, and so soon after, I’m left wondering what is in store for me.

Do we keep falling for the same man over and over, in a different frame? Do we repeat cycles, as though our brain only follows what it recognizes? Is it true that women pursue men that remind them of their fathers? He’s got my dad’s eyes. Does one relationship exist simply to prepare you for the next?

And what about that godforsaken concept of love? Every relationship ends with me swearing off love forever, but the way he holds my face when he kisses me makes me forget those promises every time. And we make those rules, you know the ones. “I’ll always be honest with you.” “I’m not gonna get jealous.” “If we never commit, we can’t fall into that rut,” and on and on, but when it really comes down to it, none of it makes a lick of difference. For when you wake up one morning and his eyes don’t reflect in just the right way, suddenly the flame is extinguished and it all seems pointless. And nobody could stop it. Nobody could do anything to change it.

Yes, that is where I am right now. But does it stop me from letting him fall? No. Does it force me to fuck when he just wants to hold me? No. As we can determine the length of our relationship by how many periods I’ve had, there are times when it seems he’s always been here. Not in a romantic, rose tinted way, just as a old friend who’s decided to finally look me up (on Myspace no doubt).  Does the knowledge that I’ll break him close the distance between his lips and mine, as he confesses his attachment? No, no. no. And it never will.

I’ve never met a more impossible girl.

sugar and spice and everything nice. . .

Not quite what my little girl is made of. On a whim, I decided to teach her how to shoot a gun. I enlisted the help of my best friend, an avid gun owner, and off we went.

The kid had a blast, no pun intended.

She liked the handgun well enough, but the .22 rifle was like a little piece of heaven for my girl, who is very detail oriented, gadget prone and systematic. I think she will be a Top Secret something-or-other when she grows up. When she enters a room, the first thing she does is check for surveillance cameras. More times than I can count, I’ve found her standing in front of me, eyes narrowed, trying to keep a poker face, as she whispers, “Mommy. . .guess how many cameras are in this room… “

Anyway, I stray from the point: She liked the gun. Little sliding chamber. . insert bullet. . . close lever. .. aim (that’s her favorite part, and she’s GOOD). . .squeeze trigger. . . POP! (her second favorite part). . .check target. . .repeat. Again and again.

I shot about 15 rounds of the 40 cal before I conceded to the fact that it’s just too big of a gun. The 9 Mm is more my style. It just made my desire to be a bank robber that much harder to deny.

Someday, I will be a fugitive.