drunkencynic's Diaryland Diary



Whenever I'm around you my words stick to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter. They just catch in my throat as I'm about to say them. There's something about you that won't let me articulate myself to the fullest. I want to be intelligent around you, insightful, thoughtful, enigmatic, eloquent, engaging. Which of course only serves to make me less so.

Like tonight on the phone. I was holding it together until I started talking to you. Then I turned into a blathering idiot. And poor you, on the other line, desperately trying to hang on to the flailing conversation, my exclamations and random statements and decided undecidedness throwing you for a major loop. You're like me, you can't let go if you think there's an actual sentiment under there somewhere.

Oh, who am I kidding, everyone's like that. You can't just start divulging things, then stop and plead insanity and not expect your audience to be adamant about hearing the rest of it.

I guess I like to think that I'm like you.

I am, in a lot of ways, but then sometimes you'll surprise me.

Like hanging up on me tonight, citing bitterness.

You had come down to the coffee shop to talk to me, and witnessed me climbing into the car with Thomas. By that time you were probably sloshed from margaritas in your office.

But you couldn't know how it felt to see you salute me cynically as you turned away with your vindicative mocha in your hand. You have no idea how much I wanted to jump out of the car and run after you.

You have no idea how it is.
To be in thrall to you constantly.

To be in thrall to both of you constantly, intermittently.

Is that an idiosyncrasy of mine? I need to be in thrall to someone at all times?

It might be flattering for you, but being intermittently adored is probably worse than not at all. Though you never really change. I can't remember not adoring you. A rather permanent fixture, I'll give you that. But sometimes you get eclipsed. And sometimes I actually come to terms with the fact that I can't have you. Rarely, though. That's another fault of mine.

And Thomas has been infiltrating my head, heart, and loins lately! I always seem to latch onto the ones who make me whine, "Oh, please, anyone but him!". Those kisses are so sweet. Those hands. Those lips. Those shoulders. That...uh...

I'm trying to figure out if it's the actuality of it that I like or the fact that I'm spiting myself.

Oh, god, I wish I could be perfectly content being in thrall to myself, but of course it's not enough. I've gotta have someone running through my veins every second of the day.

I almost told you that I was almost in love with you, but it would have sounded too inconclusive. And pretentious. And we don't want that. Urp.

See? Insane. And even in a fake address, I find I haven't articulated half of what I really wanted to say.

10:27 p.m. - 2003-08-18


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