discrepencies/mind fuck/scared the fuck/what the fuck
so yea. no idea what to say. to do. you say your distance has turned you into the aggressor. the defiant. the stretching out to touch the sea kind of boy.
a friend of mine said to me today: “i’ve forgotten what you look like. i only remember that you’re tall, painted, and spit flames”. This statement, the allusion to my current mind frame, reference set. I don’t spend alot of time communicating with people on a personal level (ie. conversations about mutual emotional toils and exchanges beyond a very factual disclosure). I don’t spend alot of time with anyone in particular. Francis is my only real tie to the real world that exists with my past. My dog, Asa, squished up behind my back as I type this, snuggling. These are my realities. Not to discount or discredit your intentions,no. But to fully open up my world to you. Stream out the honesty, brewing up thick enough to burn.
I have tried to sit down, settle down, figure myself out. My appartment is still a flaming mess. They say your state of mind exists represented in the small spaces in which you live. My space, splattered with clothing, folded up twenties, a fifty lost somewhere in the mix. I don’t allow myself to be more open because it just doesn’t fit my state of mind right now. Am I a player? Not in the classical sense. I cannot choose ONE boy at this time. Not because I feel the need to go cavorting off in five different circles with everyone who is paying attention to me. But because I have no idea what I want. In this mess of trying to figure out how I am I have forgotten myself. I do things for other people. I stick myself in the last slot. Usually when my turn is supposed to come I am either too tired or broke to do anything about it. I have never counted on anyone. Therefore I don’t see any reason for anyone to count on me. You need me? You call. Sometimes I call you back. At some point in time you can catch me on the phone and I will do my best to hook you up in whatever proverbial sense is necessary. Invariably it is a cycle. Two of my closest girlfriends think I should be on medication, anti-depressants to be exact. Or at least according to Francis, in therapy. I don’t need therapy. I need calm. I need to establish for myself, some sense of clarity some stability at my own hands. On my own time. Not because your whole reasoning to be here is to not be 3000 miles away from me. I need people, yes. I need your friendship. I shuddered at your statement to me last night because I am so utterly inconceivably comfortable in my solidarity that any threat to that causes all alarms to go off and my emotions to dry up.
I am a fuckup in some of the most basic senses of the term. I can’t figure out how to deal with people because everyone is so fucking different from me, yet so fucking similar. I have my idiosycracies. I drive myself crazy. Sometimes I drive Francis crazy with these weird pallups of fucked up control that I try to take in situations where I feel as though I am underappreciated. Francis seems to be my only constant. I can walk out in New York and see like 10 people I know a day. In this city, it’s absurd. I have many aquaintances. I can count my friends on one hand. And even then those people I can call friends at some point or other would take full advantage of hitting this shit.
I have tried to understand my innate abilities to fuck up every sense of fulfilling emotional relationships with men boys whatever. I instigate discussions that make people uncomfortable because I can. I will tear things down and look at their pieces, only to later then realize that it was the sum total but not the seperate parts that mattered. My mind has always done that, and I have forced it as much as I can to stop. I am afraid to have to go through another one of my surgeries alone. It is most likely that I will. I cry and break down every once in a while because my whole self-assembled way of life has it’s tendency to fail me at times.
The air is getting colder here, now. Fall is approaching fast. September 11th and all of those other horrible memories will be hitting me straight in the head and chest. I will be attemtping to figure my shit out. The road trip has a potential of not happening so quick. Then again, things swirl up sometimes to fuck you and hit you in the eyeballs. I bought my own url. http://www.deannaangelo.com.
Maybe I am singularly the biggest flamingest bitch that ever breathed fire into things. Maybe I am just human. And more honestly, maybe I just have no fucking idea what I want or should have.
this was me flipping off one of the gayest photographers on aim last night. and then some.
