you smelled like coconuts

I guess I’m just tired. I keep waiting for the punch line to fall from the sky and crack my head open, so I can bleed all this out. Bleed, bleed, bleed.

So far, all I’ve been really doing is cruising on small triumphs, beady-eyed A’s, pretentious conversations about the deleterious vagaries of religion, the evils of right-wing politics and the merits of The Colbert Report over The Daily Show (yeah, that makes no sense). George Bush and Christianity piss us off, but Stephen can have our first-borns (bottom-line though, I want Demetri Martin’s babies... but I'd still give the first one to Stephen, yo). Or something.

I question things too much, to the point of gratuitous tedium. Morals won’t keep me warm at night. Who am I kidding? I have no morals. And it’s not even that cold anymore. O, the metaphors. They’re eating me alive. This is getting embarrassing.

And I wish we could just sit outside my balcony again, careful not to move or make a sound. Cautiously sipping our drinks, an ashtray and my iPod between us. Leaning against cold wall and making a point to not touch each other. Did that really happen though? You’re always trying to prove me wrong, but you never look me in the eye. (You look like Yoko Ono when you brood.)

Go home.

I hate this kind of indeterminacy. It’s crushing, this kind of impotence, this kind of uncertainty. Wait. How maudlin, how unforgivably, unbearably maudlin.

I’m supposed to have breakfast with Derek tomorrow. But I’m not sure if I can wake up on time. And he doesn’t bathe anymore. (Mother, do you like the smell of your man-musk that much? No jokes about your other-man-musk, please.) Haven’t seen him in a while. A total lie, of course, I just choose to believe that last, last Friday never happened. I’m entitled, my delusions are enablers after all.

I need a life coach.