alecto - your little bluejay (pollytrance) wrote,
alecto - your little bluejay

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There Is No Plug For Longing

Last night I went to dinner at Fresh Choice (where else?) with Stefan and as I was eating, I started thinking about various things, and that's when I got really sick.

Horrified, disgusted, oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-vomit-all-over-you, sick.

I give so much, and get so little in return. Not that I want the world, of course, but there are a couple of things I think I am entitled to.

I want to be rid of the infernal cocks that call themselves my friends and then do horrible things to me behind my back.

I want to be back where I was in 1998, things were different then, things were better then.

Just last night, I let go of some of the inhibitions that high school put into my soul. I was at Stefan's house, and I lit a clove, took off my shirt, and sang and danced and smoked in my jeans and a bra, and I didn't care if he was watching me or if he wasn't. I was singing in a really loud, obnoxious manner, but it felt so good. I kind of felt like I was drunk because I was belting out songs, and using a can of butane as a microphone. My eyes were closed and my head was back, and at the instrumental breaks I would take long drags off my clove and rock back and forth, bracing with a bedpost.

Every time I looked at Stefan, his jaw was on the floor, and his eyes were full of "Katie, I don't know what drugs you're on, but I've never seen this side of you before." After that, we went to my house where I made him cry because I told him the truth. I told him things that everybody knew and wouldn't say.

Whoever was famous for that line was right-- very few people can handle the truth.

I kept yelling at him over dinner to stop staring at me, and as we were driving down Willow Pass, I had my window down, and I was screaming in such a fashion that it sounded like body-wracking sobs. He had to ask me if I was ok, and I was strangely fine.

I felt like crying, and I liked to scream, but I wasn't sad.

This is the way it was. Being naked (read: making yourself vulnerable) isn't bad, and if the onlookers don't like what they see, they don't have to look.

I like the crass girl I used to be. The one that could make your face pale with simple words, the one who was brave, the one who didn't care that everyone could see her hot pink underwear when she walked up the hill, the one who listened to Fluffy, the one who fantasized about Art Alexakis decked out in chains. I liked that girl a lot.

She was a lot of fun at parties, though she never really left the house. Her giggle is the same as mine, and her smile is very similar, but her eyes are different. Her eyes are alive, and mine are as stone.

Let me sing to you wearing a bra, let's run down the street in our wet t-shirts and underwear, let's do body shots like we used to do.. that's right, we'll do it with strawberries, sugar, and coke, just so we have a reason to lick each other and touch each other's lips, just like we used to. It will be great, it will be like that cold night in the hot spa. Who needs alcohol when you have raw, unbridled human emotion. Happiness, my friend, is the greatest high of all.

Who's with me?

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