"neck deep in the big muddy"

it's hard to tell what i really miss, and what i think i'm supposed to miss, or i miss out of habit. or who, for that matter.

and there's a certain economy of indignation, sourgrapes of a sort, that if i'm not worth chasing, than i shan't continue to chase. and of course, this isn't about you, unless it is. but mostly it's about me, and what i'm looking for, or what i've stopped looking for. but dressing up for frankenstein on sunday made me crave club music and amaretto sours, and dancing until i sweat through my silly clothing, but i don't miss the feeling of never being quite good enough, like everything i'll ever do is some reiteration of being chosen last in gym class, and i'm still the fat girl with messy hair. and i should probably just re-filter my friends page, not look at the posts that make me feel like i'm back in that awkward skin, since most of the time it's not true, and even when it is, each instant isn't the beginning of an avalanche, it's just a poor choice, or happenstance.

there are two or three stories i tell myself to justify the impermanence of the cast of my prior life. and some of them are the no-fault ones, that it's difficult to remain friends with an alcoholic, or someone on so many drugs, or someone so bent on dying, so unsaveable. some of them are still bitter and angry, that people use me to give themselves something to compare against, tell themselves "at least i'm not that bad off" and when i stopped being that bad off, i didn't have any further use. and some of them are my fault, as useless a word as fault is, but on other days, in other lights, they're all my fault, and i'll always be missing everyone, and i'll always be tagging along, never really fitting in, and always being some sort of laughing stock, and the only times i can be truly comfortable is around a very, very select few.

i have fewer and fewer of those days as my social circle narrows, as i become more okay with the drifting in and out of correspondence, as i get a stronger sense of where i stop and the world starts. (postmodernity made all my barriers permeable to the point of psychosis, and while one never unlearns, there are ways and means of working around the wiggly bits) the potluck makes me want to flee to my house, not thinking i'm cool enough for these people, feeling like i have whatever the opposite of poise is, and that my lack is actually being broadcast in neon letters above my head.

i think i'm getting better, less aggressive, less aggressively shy. but i'm never quite sure, and most of the time, i just avoid the places where i'd have to sort through the feelings of inadequacy.

"neck deep in the big muddy"

it's hard to tell what i really miss, and what i think i'm supposed to miss, or i miss out of habit. or who, for that matter.

and there's a certain economy of indignation, sourgrapes of a sort, that if i'm not worth chasing, than i shan't continue to chase. and of course, this isn't about you, unless it is. but mostly it's about me, and what i'm looking for, or what i've stopped looking for. but dressing up for frankenstein on sunday made me crave club music and amaretto sours, and dancing until i sweat through my silly clothing, but i don't miss the feeling of never being quite good enough, like everything i'll ever do is some reiteration of being chosen last in gym class, and i'm still the fat girl with messy hair. and i should probably just re-filter my friends page, not look at the posts that make me feel like i'm back in that awkward skin, since most of the time it's not true, and even when it is, each instant isn't the beginning of an avalanche, it's just a poor choice, or happenstance.

there are two or three stories i tell myself to justify the impermanence of the cast of my prior life. and some of them are the no-fault ones, that it's difficult to remain friends with an alcoholic, or someone on so many drugs, or someone so bent on dying, so unsaveable. some of them are still bitter and angry, that people use me to give themselves something to compare against, tell themselves "at least i'm not that bad off" and when i stopped being that bad off, i didn't have any further use. and some of them are my fault, as useless a word as fault is, but on other days, in other lights, they're all my fault, and i'll always be missing everyone, and i'll always be tagging along, never really fitting in, and always being some sort of laughing stock, and the only times i can be truly comfortable is around a very, very select few.

i have fewer and fewer of those days as my social circle narrows, as i become more okay with the drifting in and out of correspondence, as i get a stronger sense of where i stop and the world starts. (postmodernity made all my barriers permeable to the point of psychosis, and while one never unlearns, there are ways and means of working around the wiggly bits) the potluck makes me want to flee to my house, not thinking i'm cool enough for these people, feeling like i have whatever the opposite of poise is, and that my lack is actually being broadcast in neon letters above my head.

i think i'm getting better, less aggressive, less aggressively shy. but i'm never quite sure, and most of the time, i just avoid the places where i'd have to sort through the feelings of inadequacy.