One time when I was younger a guy told me that he loved me. I remember being very angry about this at the time. Angry that someone would use this word without thoroughly thinking about it. So willing to just throw around a word I had been taught was very, very heavy. A word I learned caused many issues, snags, bumps, bruises, and general sadness if not treated truly delicately. Like glass but thin glass. Glass so fucking thin you can see through it and the image is only slightly distorted. The kind of glass that would for sure break if leaned against. The kind of glass that literally has zero purpose in our every day lives. It’s glass that you kind of believe should have been left a concept instead of actually produced for its million nonuses…
I think it’s the same glass they use for shitty fish tanks. You know the kind.
“I love you jean.” He said this so easily. I remember the tone and the way it fell out of his mouth like a laugh. Rolling and sing-songy all the while a small smile on his gaunt face.
“That’s a stupid thing to say.”
“Oh stop.” Again like a laugh. I wasn’t joking. Was he joking? I hoped so. I hoped so, so fucking hard.
“I don’t even know myself enough to love me. What makes you think you could? Never mind after just two years. You know how long I’ve been familiar with me, right?”
And then he tried to kiss me. And then I turned my head. And then I got out of his car and never saw him again. Don’t worry, I don’t understand it either most days. I don’t think it’s necessary that I do though. It’s just something else that’s meant to float around in the back of my head to come out when I’m least expecting it. Like now.
I feel this way about so many moments that when they spiderweb and connect to each other, I’m left with nothing but an unsteady path to sick, sad, pathetic, ironic nostalgia. The kind that makes rising in the morning miserable and next to impossible. The only thing that I can do is give in to the sandpaper kisses of my cat and try to use them as motivation. Cat is awake. I should be as well. She doesn’t even have things to do with her day.
I did have a point. Then this medical rice crispie treat kicked in and I’m not quite as eloquent as I was when I began this. I’m trying so hard to keep the point vague and obvious. Because I’m not quite sure I have the right to complain. I just want to. Constantly. I don’t understand. Just more spiders in the web. All of the silk just connecting, just connecting,weaving and weaving and weaving. And expanding, expanding, expanding. Stretching.
There have been others. Others that I wanted to believe so badly. But I just knew better. People love to love me and I love to not buy into it. I’m broke and I have a vice, thus I don’t have the time or money. Never mind how much effort I don’t feel like putting forth. I have about zero percent of me to give out anymore. People exhaust me.
If I could just let go of spiderwebs. Middle finger machine guns. I’m too stoned to finish this and too disappointed to fight through it now.