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I did it. I fucking did it. Grass stains and three hours of sleep, but I did it, I did it.
I never thought that having a nightmare of turning into a white plaster bust and suffocating could lead to breakthrough.
It's so liberating to know I was right all along.

Grass stains and French and imprints of selective ownership.

In other news, the sun in shining, I am myself again, and I do not plan to sleep until I am dead.

realizations come so fast.

dear r---,

it's growing, this strange fascination with enlightenment, this tugging pull toward momentum. And it's growing. Not just growing. Growing painful. Resistance.
My resolve, something so often a source of pride, has molded into something flimsy, a fragile ting, subject to the power of how exactly I'm allowed to seek you each day.

my sturdy resolve in hanging in the rafters of your will, swinging like a broken powerline.

here's the deal. My will, my resolve, my self control -- it will crack next time I am as close to you as I was last night. it will shatter and glass fragments of my will will shower down like snow.

consider this your warning. you can't. you can't just let me touch you like that, share your body heat, you can't do that and expect me not to think about it and bring it up the next day.

or maybe you can, and I just have to learn to deal with it.

I think I'm starting to want you more than I'm ready to admit. did I really start this game? 

// transcriptions of road blocks and progress.
"good morning. sleep well?"
"I -- oh, hell, what time is it?"
"We slept through church."
"No. Oh, fuck. Why did I let you stay?"
"You didn't, really."
"Right. Why aren't you gone?"
"Because I'm comfortable. Or was. Lie back down, will you?"
"No, I will not. I'm not comfortable with this."
"See seemed pretty damn comfortable with it. Do you have to be so -- "
"Please. Stop. The only reason I let you stay is so we wouldn't get caught. It was not an invitation to touch me or to kiss my neck or -- or -- oh, fuck, did all that really happen?"
"Yep. It did."
"I -- I don't -- Get out."
"Get ut. You said you'd be gone before I woke up, and you're not, so get ut."
"You must be kidding."
"Why would I kid?"
"Something must've changed. You were -- "
"I was tolerant. Nothing else. Get out."

These types of thoughts don't make doing homework any easier.

Thoughts battle words over deeds
A war with such casualties.

Lyrics true to life, to be sure. I'm hardly ever sure what I'll end up doing anymore. I'm unpredictable, even to myself. Let's see if I can control myselt tonight, shall we?


smart decisions are in short supply.

especially concerning this newly blossomed masochism that forces me to time travel. I suppose it's not so odd that I should be curious what it would be like to take a trip to last year. I just want to see what it's like.
I won't actively search for it. It's out of my hands now. But I can't help but hope that things work out just so I can get that glimpse of perspective.

On the bright side, at least I get to see A---- tomorrow.
But even that experience will be hindered slightly by a cold sore. We'll see how creative we can get.


    Victory has been achieved, and it is in the form of ----'s wet
    dream. It's a small victory, but as they say, one baby step at a time.

    Milestone-esque dirty dream aside (or nightmare, as he liked to
    call it), I've been thinking about dreams more than I'd like to. You
    would think that after years of nightmares, I would grow accustomed
    to the strange landscape dreams; weird skies and heads with no
    faces, broken floors, cracks in the walls that open up into rooms full
    of blood, underground chambers, or icy nights in the snow.

    To be perfectly honest, I loathe my dream self. I am always on the
    offensive there, always waiting for the next terror. Being chased, being
    caught, being killed. Once in a while I turn into my own killer,
    slaughtering myself slowly with a piece of bone, or a knife, or just by
    unstringing myself like a loose sweater. I construct realities for myself,
    create a logic that makes no sense. All vulnerable and hopeless.
    Gross, to be frank.

    And ----- is nearly wraught with anxiety just because he doesn't want to
    dream about me naked, as it's an 'improper physical indulgence.'

    Perspective is a wonderful thing.

somehow, it's always AP lit.

Ten thirty, sitting nearly on top of a pile of unfolded clothing that was meant to be neatly piled into a suitcase by now, staring at a word document containing half of an AP Lit blog post about a poem that rhymes too much and is slightly annoying. Thoughts disjointed, phone ringing off the hook even though I have made an abundance of things abundantly clear, too tired to sleep.

I have to sit through two periods tomorrow. AP Lit (why is it always AP Lit? Hello Snowstorm essay, Crime and Punishment, and three make-up blog posts) and French III, where we are reading about Petit Nicolas.

Since when is my life so distinctly defined by what I have to do? Oh, right. Since always. Why am I still so surprised?
Still, though, thoughts of New York are nice, even if they include anxiously considering that I will be spending time with people who I am growing fairly certain that I don't actually like, and leaving behind certain people that I am growing frighteningly more fond of.

Or, regrowing, rather.
Regulated undergrowth? Marvelous strange oaths.

and now I'm out of things to talk about because I can't talk about sex anymore. How upsetting.

Real life found me, and it discovered me to be full of sex, AP Lit and pillowcases.

you make me a criminal, don't you know?

Apparently, you're officially back in my life. Every bit of you.
Everything from your lopsided smile, your fine hair, your gentle whine, and mild critisisms, and that elephant in the room. Everything. I missed it. I did. I missed it and now I want it and I can't deny it and I'm turning my fucking livejournal in a place to write about it.

I like it when you crawl into bed with me without asking, because you know it is your home.
I like it when you're horny, but will be patient, only pulling me a little closer every once and awhile and whining.
I like it when you touch my scars.
I like the way you smell even though you smell like all the shit I hate.
I like your scars. I have this fascination with them, and I want to run my hands over them and read them, like Braille.
I like it when you sing bad 90s songs into the silence when I won't answer your questions.
I like our map.
I love how we are hilarious around one another.
I love how you won't accept the fact that you're cute. (slash breathtaking, but I won't tell you that.)
I love that you're a total baby when you're horny.
I love how .. hah. I love how I changed to "I love" without even thinking about it.

Goddamnit. Why'd you have to come back?
And why'd you have to stay exactly the same? Change a few choice changes, and we'd be good to go.

There is nothing like slipping into a hot bubble bath for ten minutes, getting dizzy with the heat, and then lying on the cool tile of the bathroom floor and listening to the buzz of bubbles dissolving on your body. The process can be enjoyable repeated until you finish that damn Hamlet.

Try it sometime.