Mostly, I refer you to my post of last night. I'm not going to be able to get anything done until I know who sent me that CD. Please, do tell me if it was you.
(By which I mean, please tell me if it was you. Not please tell me if it wasn't you, as that's at least 190 people and my comments page could get a little silly. ~smile~)
Also, Jesus fucking Christ on a fucking pogo stick made of fucking indiarubber. I am *never* going to be cynical enough to believe how much it's possible for people to suck.
Come on, universe. I still feel mostly alive - I still feel. Surely you can do better than that. I mean, if I learn to cope with one level of what you throw at me, surely you should move to the next level? You always have done before.
Come on. You know I won't feel better until I'm broken, bent double and unable even to cry, too cold to bleed. Come on, you can do better than this. Come on, god damn it.
It's not nearly enough. Take it to the point where it can't hurt any more. It's all I know how to deal with.
Edit : Thank you! That's much better.
Mostly unapologetic for feeling like this; less so for telling you about it.
It all seems such a long time ago; it was. Spring always tastes the same in the same place, though, and recently - despite the cold - I have felt the soft light and flowering air of March beginning to rise around me. I was quietly joyful that this year I might look at it with tearless eyes.
No secret garden, this, shut with the entrance covered and waiting for someone to rip off the ivy and break open the door. I never wanted to do that; preserving an ideal that never was would get me nowhere. So I waited until I could look at the flowers without crying, until I could see the beauty of the roses and vines, until the paths and benches no longer bore any trace of my presence. And then I gently shut the gate and walked away.
And I have never once walked back. So how am I now standing at the gate, wondering at the weeds that choke the roses?