upchucking&other such things.
��������� �����so. it's 5 in the am. a particularly horrible night. full of sadness like a teacup overfilled. a sore on my right arm, that, through coaxing and nattering, has now turned into what appears to be a heroin junkie's insertion point - ground zero, if you will. many bug bites, accumulating around ankles and upper forearms. back of the skull. song in my head is kenna's 'war in me' which i screamed at the top of my lungs driving home alone from rehearsal tonight - which, again, sucked. why did i audition for a musical again? will someone remind me next time i do that i can neither a) sing, nor b) dance and that tonight both were confirmed by odd looks and glances. the music director stopping -'we have a wrong note in there somewhere.' yeah, me.
peripheral. drove on the wrong side of the road for most of the way home, living Dangerously. so very angry. and for what reason? none. oh, sure, i'll pawn it off on frustration over the rehearsal process, or lack thereof, or the accumulation of rapid financial bills that i can't seem to manage due to my reticence to get a job. or how i've been getting heartburn a lot more lately, and how today in subway i had to upchuck. i've gotten so good at it now i don't even need to stick my finger down my throat. i could be BulimiaBoy - the magically skeletal young man and patron saint of all eating disorders - superhero of justice and revenge! my weakness would be a good sandwich.
no rehearsal tonight. i will spend the day sleeping for most, i predict, and then adventure mall-wards again. thrice in three days. i enjoy it. a centre of modern culture. paradigms of loveliness and ugliness all at once.
'why are you so down? i hate it when you're down,' jason remarks as we're lugging his laundry towards the theatre.
'i'm not down. i'm just irritated.'
'why, because he has a boyfriend?'
'no, actually, that's not it at all, and you need to stop talking about that now.' my voice took on a surprisingly hard tone, crisp and biting. i imagined myself as an asshole.
'good, see, i'm glad you just told me that. you can't be angry at me for it because before i didn't know.'
oh yes i can 'okay, fine.'
silence settles. 'i'm just irritated. is all.'
'oh.'
lots of silence in the car to-and-fro the mall today. lots of music. music i didn't want to hear but played anyway. later:
'peter told me that i should leave USM.'
'why?'
'something about withering up and dying.'
'well what do you think?'
'i don't know.' the kids in the hall is on tv. jason is eating caffeine free pepsi and chips&cheese - this little can of atomic wise nacho cheese that i've indirectly addicted him to. i'm eating soup. 'i don't know where else i could go.'
'well, i wouldn't put too much stock in what peter says. he's always running away from something.'
frank candour from jason, something i didn't expect. 'he's not running away. he just goes everywhere. so therefore, there's always something else to see. or do. and leave.' i considered. 'besides, going somewhere is better than getting stuck in one place.' again. 'kaylen says so too.'
'well, you know.'
i love how conversations can just end with a misstatement, and nothing ever gets solved or figured out.
preparing myself for something, now, tipsy-turning over things in my sleep, dreams that are recycled from when i was really little, springing back up on me with new and improved adult fright-fare ... the horrible witch in the turret is no longer simply a witch with green skin and a big hat and nose, but now is naked, and is the epitome of scum. glazed eyes and drool dripping from her maw. she laughs at me and i can't quite place the voice. but i run away and the stairs continue generating. down down down.
i think this is where i got up from my bed, ran out of the room into my parent's room and vomited macaroni-and-cheese all over their azure-coloured rug, matted down where the dog usually sleeps but, obviously, had somehow prognosticated i'd be upchucking all over him if he stayed in one place; and moved.
a murder of crows out on the gables of corthell. i see them from here, and hear responding echoes of cawing from behind robie-andrews. harridans of birds, black-eyed and black-winged and black-clawed - the true oil-spill bird. caked in the filth. nonlight birds. one right now is silhouetted against the peach-pale of dawn, like a scabrous mole on the skin of a beautiful woman's stomach ... there's barely any wind. i feel torn-apart on the inside, and for no reason that i can rationally discern. malaise. accidie. malcontent. misanthrope. perverse. unhappy.