7:36 a.m. - February 18, 2003
I'm shutting down, that autopilot detachment engaged and I can't decide whether to go to class or stay home and if I can hold out til Friday morning when I go away I'll be okay but right now I'm not okay and I'm dressed, denim shirt, olive slacks, my bookbag packed, pens capped, notebooks ready though I haven't done my reading and I think I don't know where I've placed my keys and the thought is the lodestone - capstone - cornerstone - whothefuckcareswhatkindofstone - and I don't want to drive, I don't want to be here, the shower was hot and my voice is scratchy and Spec is gone. At midnight, at 3, at 6, I tried to write, booted up the computer and when prompted for the password I sat here and thought just when you have everything under control and the sun is warm on your face and you take chances well sometimes it's better not to fuck with things when they're volatile and scary and I would rather be with a woman and feel unfulfilled and do the job well than be a fucked up crazy shit dumb-ass who can't stand the rocking and I am disappointed, I am angry, I am furious and I am hurt and Eric Vincent Thompson who lives in Fresno, California and probably has a wife and kids and a boat and a two-car garage and nice carpeting should be thankful I do not have a weapon beacuse I am angry and fucked up and it is my fault, my fault that I panic and scream and scream in the middle of sex and cannot calm down and I scream more and cannot stop and it is his fault, it was his weight on me that I couldn't take and I couldn't shut up and I ruined everything and I wanted more than I've ever had, the weight is too much. I am a mess and it is my fault because of him and I am the crow who steals your sandwich at lunch. I am not well this morning.
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