It's interesting how people's perfumes can be so cloying, so much so that in one's mind it's given space to come into its own, an odoriferous pink cloud of chemicals and induced nausea. Staining skin, finding smug refuge in clothing. Yuck.
I've been meaning to write here for the longest time. But things just keep rearing their ugly heads -- from neglected deadlines to neglected friends, from the exigencies of sleep and respite to the general inability to piece together fragments of thought into coherent and voluble sentences. I always feel so demotivated these days, I can't help it. I've always had something to look forward to come spring time, but now there's nothing on my summer plate except the prospect of more microeconomic theory and what will probably prove to be a fruitless job hunt.
I just really need to take a step back from things. Try to get my game-face back on, try to refrain from smacking people. And I need to stop judging people, it's gross. I don't know anything about your life, even though I've spent an unfortunate amount of time watching you stuff face and just rot a little, just rot a little more. (I think you're dead inside.) And I miss music. I only ever listen to music in my car now. And then I have to constantly fiddle with the tuner knob, to filter out all the poopy radio stations and their poopy DJs and poopy song choices. (Listening to the same 5 CDs over and over again is not healthy.)
I don't like how my mother talks to my grandmother. I mean, I can understand why my mother's furious with her. But she's an old woman. And you don't castigate your own mother in front of your children. Christ. I couldn't even stand it, I had to leave the room. But the walls are frightfully thin in this place, and I ended up staring at my ceiling while listening to my mother's voice, sharp, coldly accusing, and missing my dad. I miss my dad. I miss so many things about living with him, knowing he's always a door down from me, or a cheap phone call away (probably at the golf course, where he likes it best, or even in his office shuffling his lawyerly papers). I miss how he's always willing to fix things for us, from my stint in ROTC, to my sister's dorky assignments about, I don't know, Jesus or something. I miss having meals with him, hearing his yabang stories about his cars or his lawyerly victories, or his stories about his childhood in Iloilo, which are curiously peppered with dead cats, field mice, and fairies. Right now, he's what I miss most about home. It's weird, I never missed him this much when I was living alone. I just can't stand my mother. And, yes, that's heartbreaking all in its own. It's ironic how, with each passing day, she reminds me more and more of my grandmother. It's like she's shrinking right before my eyes.
I'm fat.
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