Shooting the Moon

Domesticity. . . or something.

karawaite — Sun, 02 Mar 2008 17:54:39 +0000

Yesterday, we ate a big breakfast. We went to the bookstore and then we set in the park reading. After that, we talked about wanting to eat clouds and wondered if we seemed like perverts for watching kids play.

Then we had this “quotable” conversation.

Him: Let’s just have one.
Me: Have one what?
Him: A kid. I could impregnate you right now and we’d have one to play with next semester.
Me: Oh, okay, yeah, we’ll get right on that.
Him: There’s a pool here. Did you know there’s a pool here? We could go do it and then tell the baby it was conceived in the Himmel Park pool.
Me: Okay.
Him: It’ll be fun.
Me: But then what are we gonna do with the baby when we get bored of it.
Him: I don’t get bored.
Me: I do. And I’d be like, “yeah, so I’m really sorry about that whole orphanage thing, but, see, I’ve got a really short attention span.”
Him: Good point. Maybe not, then. Want to get a cherry slush instead?
Me: Hell to the fuck to the yeah.

So then we got one and he was teasing me for something or another and poked a whole in his cup. Red went everywhere and he had to throw it out of the car and then he made this face at me, this face he must have made a hundred million times as a kid. And I thought for like this quick, dark second that maybe it would have been kind of fun.

Last Friday Night.

karawaite — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 17:25:12 +0000

We lie down in the grass. As in, we are on our backs, not telling untruths. I clasp my hand around his in an urgent, sneaking way. He is clammy and, as usual, lets go too soon.

We get up. Our backs are just the slightest bit damp.

We argue as is typical about the way back. We get there before we are finished fighting about just where it is we are going. We go upstairs, put a towel at the bottom of the door and smoke a bowl in the bathroom. I look at the two of us in the mirror (for some reason I have taken off my pants) and think how different our skin colors are. I think that his entire body is the color of the places the sun doesn’t shine on mine. We are beautiful, I say to him, very, very pretty.

I love his freckles and we have the same texture of hair but different colors.

It is stated (I forget by whom) that this hotel has a hot tub. Then it is decided that we’ll go in in our underwear. We get in the elevator.

I ask, have you ever done it in an elevator?
He says, no, let me know if you want to try it.

We sneak past a security guard. I throw my pants (which I’ve put back on since the restroom) to the side. Then, only once I’m halfway in the water, do I remove my shirt. He smokes a cigarette and gets completely naked. I yell at him to keep his shorts on, which he does. He gets into the water and then we are kissing.

We are biting each other’s lips. We are discussing whether or not to go upstairs. I am thinking that I have wanted this for a very long time, but at the same time, I am thinking of him thinking of me and pretending I’m her.

But we go upstairs. We get on the bed. He looks me right in the eyes the entire time. The entire time. Eye contact does not break for one second. This doesn’t seem strange.

Until I get home and I google her and I look at her picture and I realize that her eyes, like mine, are the lightest shade of brown.

Being sad when the sun is shining.

karawaite — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 17:08:51 +0000

My friend told me that when she and her ex-husband were going through their divorce, they used to split a Prozac every morning.

My response, a sarcastic, “Oh, now that’s healthy.”

These days I’d change it, these days I’d ask “Why just half?”

Thing is, when a relationship is crumbling, when you’re just holding onto those little crumbs, it’s about the saddest god-damn thing there is. It’s even sadder than just sweeping them up and being done. Because, yeah, that hurts, but it’s the kind of hurt than stands a chance of getting better.

So I’m watching him hold onto crumbs. I’m thinking, no, don’t do that. And it’s all very sad. Because I didn’t realize it until I was sitting next to him on a bench during the brightest part of the day, but I’m in love with him.

I’m in love with somebody whose heart is broken because someone else doesn’t love him and I finally understand what it’s like to be Justin. I finally get, after two solid years of being in love with X, what it was like for him to watch that, what it was like for him to sleep next to me and hear me cry in my sleep, what it was like to know that nothing he did would ever change my feelings. It’s terrible.

It’s karma. It’s karma and it’s ruining springtime.

If you’re not over it, you’re under it.

karawaite — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 22:32:36 +0000

True dat, right? True dat.

Wise Words.

karawaite — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 20:57:34 +0000

I remember something my history prof said about power. He told us, if it’s a bitch to get it’s going to be a bitch to keep. The same is true of relationships.

My Life is a Contest in Shitty Valentine’s Days.

karawaite — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 00:09:48 +0000

He’s sitting maybe fifteen feet away with his headphones on and reading his own poetry under his breath.

It’s all about his ex. Every single page of his manuscript has got her name on it. It’s a name I used to like. Not anymore. Now it’s a name that tastes hard and bitter. It used to be what I planned to name my first daughter. Now I’m thinking that would be like calling her Cunt or Whoreface or Fire Crotch.

So there’s that.

The other thing is that he keeps asking my opinion on which words should go where and I feel a little like lying, like telling him the shitty one is the one he ought to use. But, thing is, joke’s on me. ‘Cause he’s good and neither thing is shitty enough to be any kind of real punishment.

karawaite — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 23:17:03 +0000

When he was a baby, he picked a bee off the floor and put it in his mouth. It was still alive and stung his tongue. To this day, he can only taste sour to one side of his mouth. On our first date, he drew me a diagram of the human tongue with a thick X marking the spot where the stinger went in.

Two inches to the back, he said, and it would be bitter that I can’t taste.

Yes, I said, but a bit more to the front and you’d be out sweet and salty.

I don’t have. . .

karawaite — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 22:54:48 +0000

Cancer!

Yea.

I also don’t have. . .
Money.
A normal boyfriend.
Any idea what I’m doing with my collection.
A job.
A baby.
A house.
Or lots of other things I thought I’d have by now.

But I’m less a lump in my boob. And here are some things I do have:
A huge bruise on said boob.
Lots of nice, tight stories.
An amazing group of friends (to include: Lin, Kris, Ry, Z, Will, Erin, Danny, & Astrid).
An amazing almost-boyfriend or at least not-completely-ruled-out-as-possible boyfriend.
A fridge containing pomegranates.
My health.
Some small remenants of my sanity.
And, mostly, luck. Lots of luck.

An Actual Conversation.

karawaite — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 17:33:30 +0000

Him: Not to be like everyone else and tell you what to do, but you need to cut that guy out for good. He’s an asshole.
Me: I know. I know. I want to move on. I’m ready for something new, good. Not fucked up. But not safe and boring either.
Him: And I know you’ll find that.
Me: I thought I already had.
Him: (Silence)
Me: With you, I mean. I mean, I think you’re new and good and not fucked up and not safe and not boring. You. I want you.*

*Note: I didn’t actually say that last part. But I thought it. I did.

Dear Ex-Boyfriend Who Likes To Knock People Up:

karawaite — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 17:28:07 +0000

I loved you. I did. A lot. More than anyone to date. Probably not more than anyone ever, probably when this is all said and done you won’t even make it in the top five of people I’ve loved. But for now. For now. I loved you a whole fucking lot. I pulled a shit-ton of strings to keep things going when things were very decidedly stopping. I regret that. You know? I regret not that it didn’t work out, but that I pushed and pulled and rearranged and yanked and tugged so hard for so long only to end up in the same place I’d have ended up without all of said pushing, pulling, rearranging, yanking, and tugging. I regret that a whole lot. Probably more than anything I’ve ever regretted. I regret hating myself because I couldn’t make us work. I regret eating nothing but an orange and a saltine for a three month period in college, hoping against everything that having a slightly smaller ass would make you a slightly smaller asshole. I regret ruining my metabolism. I regret not taking the opportunities I didn’t take. I regret eventually getting so numb to all your hurting of me that I began to hurt you. I regret that most sincerely of all. I regret letting our past affect my future. I don’t, though, regret finally (after all these months and years and hours and tears and sweat) letting you go. I do, however, regret that it ended up being your knocking yet another girl up that finally snapped everything apart, that finally jarred me from my haze and made me realize that I’ve been sitting in the exact same place for five years. I’m leaving, you know? I’m already gone.