In Which I Manage to Cock-block Myself
This post brought to you by Bacardi Silver(TM).
I managed, through complete and utter fabulousness, to cock-block mySELF last night. In summation, the drunk me hates the sober me and doesn't want me to be happy. It was likely my subconscious trying to save me from a poor fit, but feels bitter nonetheless. Not once, mind you, but twice. Twice. And I repeat myself.
Talking to so many old lovers recently, and wondering who I'd be if things had been different. Did I ever tell you that we got pregnant? That I killed it, and that I was secretly glad; not so much because I was afraid of being a mother, but that I was afraid of telling you, and finding out that you weren't the man I envisioned you to be? But we were pregnant. It happened, and lately I have trouble ignoring it. Also because lately everyone I know is pregnant, and I can't go a single stupid day without hearing about the status of some dumb broad's uterus. This kills me.
I was never good at friends. So much about envisioning another life is scary, but so much of this one is already played out and old. It's maybe time to leave. It's too late to leave gracefully, but just the right time to cut one's losses and head for the hills of my youth. Stubborn has gotten me nothing but hurt.
I'm so glad to be older. I'm glad in that I think I've finally arrived at some sort of peace. All that anything requires any more is time. Everything passes through me, all the joy and all the anguish, and it feels so much at the time, but it all passes. It's nice to know that you just have to have the patience to wait it out anymore. Things all felt so goddamn important when I was younger, and now I have the ability to relax, to let the swell pass over me, bend me and release me, and know that I just have to let go and hold my breath. With enough waiting, everything is right as rain. Imagining that rain is right, in this case.
And I bid you good day, or good night. Know that I am thinking of you, as it would seem that only dearest friends read this, and I have not even the common courtesy to return your calls. In my own way, always in my own way. Here's to us, to you, and to the unknown pleasant occurrances of our futures.
I managed, through complete and utter fabulousness, to cock-block mySELF last night. In summation, the drunk me hates the sober me and doesn't want me to be happy. It was likely my subconscious trying to save me from a poor fit, but feels bitter nonetheless. Not once, mind you, but twice. Twice. And I repeat myself.
Talking to so many old lovers recently, and wondering who I'd be if things had been different. Did I ever tell you that we got pregnant? That I killed it, and that I was secretly glad; not so much because I was afraid of being a mother, but that I was afraid of telling you, and finding out that you weren't the man I envisioned you to be? But we were pregnant. It happened, and lately I have trouble ignoring it. Also because lately everyone I know is pregnant, and I can't go a single stupid day without hearing about the status of some dumb broad's uterus. This kills me.
I was never good at friends. So much about envisioning another life is scary, but so much of this one is already played out and old. It's maybe time to leave. It's too late to leave gracefully, but just the right time to cut one's losses and head for the hills of my youth. Stubborn has gotten me nothing but hurt.
I'm so glad to be older. I'm glad in that I think I've finally arrived at some sort of peace. All that anything requires any more is time. Everything passes through me, all the joy and all the anguish, and it feels so much at the time, but it all passes. It's nice to know that you just have to have the patience to wait it out anymore. Things all felt so goddamn important when I was younger, and now I have the ability to relax, to let the swell pass over me, bend me and release me, and know that I just have to let go and hold my breath. With enough waiting, everything is right as rain. Imagining that rain is right, in this case.
And I bid you good day, or good night. Know that I am thinking of you, as it would seem that only dearest friends read this, and I have not even the common courtesy to return your calls. In my own way, always in my own way. Here's to us, to you, and to the unknown pleasant occurrances of our futures.
Labels: Dreams for an Insomniac
posted by Pru at
11:44 PM
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