• When i picture us together
• I imagine a tug-of-war and loud ripping noises
• constant ripping noises
• nauseating ripping noises
• tendons and bones and muscle pried apart
• It’s a sick self-reliance that flows through my veins
• not blood
• and it keeps me glued together
• NO
• NOT GLUED
• it’s cement and I’m stuck stuck stuck and I am so sorry
• if I let you pry me apart
• apart from I Don’t Know What
• then I’ll crack into a million gray pieces of stone
• You’re the tendons ripping
• the bones tearing
• the nausea and the pouring ripping disgusting noises
• And when I tear you apart
• you won’t be in pieces of red muscle and fragments of bones
• I’ll tear you in two and thousands upon thousands of glass beads will crash to the floor and scatter into the grass and you will never ever get them back
• and that is why it will never work.

• Everything about my emotions right is bright purple.
• This angry violet.
• This color is a total upset and upheaval.
• I have this feeling of inexplicable frustration and rage-
• My brain is screaming at me over and over
• “I JUST WANT TO GO HOME!”
• (I thought it was screaming at someone else, but I think I’m really just screaming it at myself after all)
• But I am home, and I know I’m home, and I feel like home,
• and Orlando isn’t home.
• But I can’t shake this feeling.
• I just want to go home.

Sickness of some sort.

• I had a dream in which there was a violent man in the performing arts center.  He seemed like a handsome young man in a polo shirt who asked me directions to a certain classroom, but sure enough, after we spoke, a teacher of mine said “That guy you talked to?  He’s bad news!”  I don’t know where my teacher disappeared to.  When I turned around, the Violent Man punched a boy I knew in the back.  I confronted Violent Man, told him he better leave before I call the cops.  Get out of my building.  He pushed me into a wall and raised a hand to hit me.  About five men I knew in the theatre department were on top of him in a second.  The cops appeared instantly.  I woke up.
• I have a fantasy in which I’m at a party, get into an argument with some random male, say something that might unknowingly provoke him too strongly, and he hits me.  I go down, and a male object of my affection comes to my rescue.  Object seems like he might Random.  People have to hold Object away.  Object tells him to leave.
• Yet whenever I meet a nice strong man, he’s NICE and STRONG, I recoil.  I push him away.  Because it’s not nice to have those damsel in distress fantasies.  It’s gross and it’s weak and he can’t let me live it.  I want some fuck-up, some gross guy, someone with something horribly wrong and eight different vices.  Someone to rescue me from my wanting to be rescued.  But then, they’re never Object, are they?

Dream Me doesn’t like grief but likes attention.

I had an elderly relative dying, one that I didn’t know that well but it was really striking dream me’s soul down.  It really felt horrible.  Dream Relative - who was no particular relative I have now - was well-known by my college and had a long list of people to see before me.  The last person in line before me to see Dream Relative, a Design student I take classes with, dressed up in a very cute girl’s suit to see Dream Relative.  Dream Relative died with my suited classmate in the room.  I didn’t get to see her.  Everyone felt bad for me, but I wanted none of it.  Please, one performance major boy I know vaguely well said, Let me just take you out for some food so we can talk about it.  FINE, I agreed, annoyed.  A large group of people waited on an elevator while we simultaneously got lectured by an instructor I had in high school.  The elevator had natural light in it, who knows where from.  I was feeling very sad.  The Boy I Know Vaguely Well sensed that, came over and hugged me and just held me and it felt so nice to have someone’s genuinely caring attention until my phone woke me up.

• It’s so funny to me when someone asks me about one of many certain boys-
• “Hey, do you know ______ ?”
•   Do I know him-
• I’ve pictured us changing our relationships statuses on Facebook simultaneously and him bringing me coffee after a rough night of studying and celebrating our six month anniversary and taking the same bus to visit my parents and him playing with my dogs and my friends teasing him about our dorky lovebird looks and him falling asleep on the couch in my apartment and falling asleep together after a Night between the sheets –
• close to 500 times.
• And you ask if I know him.
• Yes, I think we briefly met a party.  One game of beer pong later, I doubt he remembered who I was.

Walking with guts, version 2.0.

• In acting class, we practiced walking and letting different parts of our body lead
• “Walk, and let your hips lead you.
• “Walk with your torso.
• “Walk with your head.”
• And more.
• “How does each feel to you?  What’s the most comfortable? The least comfortable?
• “What part of your body do you normally walk with?”
• I gave many thoughts and minutes of my time trying to figure out what part of my body I walked with.  None of them really felt comfortable.  But maybe that was just because I was forcing myself to pick from one of those appendages and fleshy parts and compare how I walked with them to how everyone else did.
• I’ve since decided that I don’t walk with my legs or arms or stomach or any joint or any visible part at all
• I think I walk with my veins.
• I follow some unseen force that is in charge of my every step and every motive
• Some weird flowing motion, and if I stop walking or stop moving or the blood stops flowing, then life stops, and I just can’t take that.
• I follow my insides
• and I feel strangely sorry for it.

The Anxiety Diaries. Post One. January 3rd, 2012.

• It’s actually really cold here in Florida tonight
• And somehow I have the coldest bedroom in the house
• My father told me to sleep with the heavy blue comforter, even when I said he should probably use it himself.
• He took out of this pink bin and I realized it had probably been in the garage before this so I asked him to shake it out.
• Anything that had been in our garage or even opened and in our living room for too long might very well have spiders crawling around it
• Just one spider, a brown recluse most likely, could bite you and really do damage while you’re sleeping.
• Or it could crawl into you and eat you from the inside out and/or lay eggs-
• I’ve pictured this close to a thousand times.
• My dad said there was no reason to shake it out but even after a nice night of sleep, I’m still pretty sure it could use a shaking.
• The only reason I didn’t just shake it out myself is because I was tired-
• Which is strange because I took my Lexapro pretty soon before it-
• Which actually did not stop my heart and kill me in my sleep-
• Which I feel pretty fortunate for.
• I always try to put a large space between my last medication and when I go to sleep because if it causes a heart attack or respiratory distress without warning, I can be awake enough to call 911 with the cell phone that I keep next to my pillow-
• The same phone that has three different alarms set to make sure I wake up.
• That was a close call
• I’m pretty sure I could have died
• Despite how many times I’ve taken Lexapro this semester before I go to sleep.
• We’ll just see about tomorrow night.

So

If anyone here happens to have an account at Figment, a writing website, or maybe if you don’t (I don’t know how the heart thing works), please go to this link and “heart” this entry so I can win a contest.

http://figment.com/books/206516-Nod

It’s not my best work, but why the fuck not, am I right?

You make noise. Clack-clack.

• It’s funny how when I see these guys I know who are really tall and skinny, their bodies are such that whenever they move,
• I expect to hear some sort of clack-clack noise of their joints and arms and legs
• as if they were marionette puppets being dangled by some unseen force and they go clack-clack in and out of rooms and doorways
• But they don’t go clack-clack
• Now that I’ve figured out what noise they should be making,
• I have to spend my damn time trying to figure out what noise they ARE making.
• But I’m not really close enough to hear.