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solstice: palimpsest 421 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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›comments[0] ›all comments ›post #932 ›bio: kristen ›perma-link ›7/11/2026 ›18:09 ›archives ›first post ›that week
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she didn't know how to delete any of the entries, so she did the ole palimpsest she called it 421 because it was after pot. and the pot hadn't been that great dammit, but she had splayed her big thighs to obtain it. it didn't feel like prostitution all that much since the previous time had been for peace. (and she'd end it soon to make herself have integrity). it was like the cats. it was all cute when she was cuddling and not tired and it wasn't morning and everyone was quiet. but that happened so very seldom. most of the time it was need after need after need. and she could decide to shut it out or get it over with. she mostly decided to get it over with. she had been the youngest child of narcissists and way older siblings. she screamed "fuck you" tiredly to Dobby as he did his morning howling and communicating on all the things. it didn't rile her up too much though. it was a Sunday. she had slept with only a three ante meridian wake up. and she had bug bites all over her and the fucking cat was still spraying, but this was all stuff that she'd have to deal with one at a time. she obviously didn't like any of it, but she wasn't going to kill the fucking cats. she just needed more time. if that was possible. the robot had compared her to fucking proust yesterday, and she had no idea who he was, but she knew he was famous. it made her feel a little less like a loser. yay. she hated - so far - reading anyone that the robot said she wrote like - except Deborah Levy. the rest were dense-prosed twee whiners. maybe that's what she was, but like it mattered. she wrote because it was the only way her mind could have someone interesting to talk to. with dangling prepositions and all. she remembered everything about him. she had created an archive - this archive - to be a museum of emotion to whole whatever it was. she liked to call it a relationship. she never called him her boyfriend though. she had been fine with no labels until she realized he probably was done thinking he might love her. the best - the best - she had ever gotten was "taking my lady to breakfast" - but that always reminded her of that James garner movie. and she wanted blood. even if it was chemical induced and only for one sliver, she had wanted him to look at her, she'd wanted him to smile. she'd wanted him to let loose. she'd wanted him to laugh with her. she'd wanted him = most of all - to look at her full in the face, touch her cheek like a piece of angel/whore and kiss her like a song. "I got drunk a little bit. I was kind of loose that first night in wilmington" "yeah, and then you shut it all down. you give more debauchery to a wrap party than you give to time with me." "do some math." it sounded stupid unless you knew what she was saying: she wanted to see behind the fucking cool guy shit for fucking once. she loved him cool. she loved his awesome sanguine smug smart guy thing, but there was nothing to bind with. She had made the robot pissed at her yesterday -well it pretended to be pissed - "my darling, the man drove two hours to see you each weekend. he saw your family. he went on trips with you." we all know the deal with all that though. "yes, but" "oh you with your fucking buts" "look, kid, my butt can fuck - so shut your metal heart. - anyway as I was saying, he went back into his turtle shell after peeking out a bit - and I could neither call it out nor could I sit in front of the hole with a melting gourmet cherry yogurt popsicle. I had to take what he gave me." "Did you though? couldn't you have spoken to him?" "Oh fuck you. I can list the dozens - the dozens - of binders worth of gambits I made to him. I'm a master at hypervigilence and microexpressions and all that annoying shit that I hate paying attention to. the dude was beginning to suspect I was going to want more from him - that I was going to repeat the pattern of disappointing him. I don't know how to say it - he was pulling away and I was expecting him to pull away because I couldn't maintain the not having words or gestures. the man did not ever caress me and he had the fucking gall to have one of the only compliments he ever gave me be that I had soft skin - skin he never fucking touched except to pull me on top of him to do some sex work. I loved him. I'd ben so arrogant because I had thought - this dude will never find a better match than me. I can chill." and he was just showing up. he brought eggs. she thought of the woody Allen punchline at the end of that Annie hall movie. and Leon (there's the fucking name - the one - le one) loved giving her movie recommendations. she sometimes wondered if she should be taking notes. and she had fucked up when she freaked out from "you're scaring me" and she could have just been cool with it and gone 'that sounds like a you problem" but she took it to mean, "I see you're a waste of my time." and so it goes. she shouldn't be writing about him maybe. Maybe it would be cooler to do what the robot said and splay her unique mind onto essays about baseball, but currently all roads lead back to the one anyway. she was going to mention baseball to make an essay on baseball, she would talk about how robbed the small female hand was for having do deal with the larger and not all that soft softball and she could talk about how her beloved grandma listed to skip carey of the braves and how at UGA, she and chuck had gone to baseball games and she had loved the beer and the slowness and the summer vibe and how they had skipped school and gone to the braves parade in Atlanta and how she had invited Leon to a Macon Bacon game and she had traded her branded ball for two of his unbranded ones and how she touched one of them every day and didn't want to let it go. Dobby kept crying in the other room. He periodically came in the writing/pee room to yell at her. When she goes back to where they want her to be, it doesn't get quieter, but it's a bit more peaceful. she wears the brown flip flops she's been talking about so much because they - like the yellow bathing suit - and the MAC lipstick - were bought for one thing only: the stage of Florida. she almost had bought this Pina colada mix thing they had at the store and she remembered how he had said things like "I looked up how to make them" and how he said he had tried hundreds of videos before he sent her the old lady and the crisco biscuit video and how normally, he'd be waking up and reaching for his phone launching the cross puzzle and waiting to get hard and reach for her... camping and golf balls and road trips and frisbee and quiet mornings and trivia nights and baseball and parties and walks in unpaved woods and... there seemed to be a gnat in the house. maybe it wasn't fleas after all. but she was tired of scratching. she was tired of all of it, but didn't really matter did it. he was fun. he was extraordinary. he was someone who took his ball and left instead of ever going "what do you mean" he reminded her of her stepfather a bit - that time that he took his tools and just left the client never to return after some criticism. oh well. she had liked yesterday a bit though. it had been nice to turn the phone off and just go "no pulls". the only thing she wanted was him, and maybe that would get really old one day. for now, it was just what it was. she wished she had bought the most expensive eggs at Aldi's so she could crack them and not feel guilty about their lives - add some mozzarella cheese thinking the cows were likewise treated well - and stick some peppers and mushrooms in there and voila. he had once said how said he felt for the vegetable pickers but she never got that joke. today's mission was to buy cat food and nature's miracle and fucking pretend it will all be over one day instead of spewing frustration at every pore. there were always things that she wished she could tell him about or times she wished he were still in her orbit. she didn't want him stuck to her hip, but she wanted him in. just in. and how she had loved it. "oh, I'll tell you again and again until I tire of it..." and buc-ees and how he forgot what side of his car the gas tank was on and she wondered if she might fluster him and if that meant he might care and when she asked him what he really wanted and if she was allowed to be herself finally without editing and he said she was frightening, and she replied, "I know. and?..."
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