Circular See-Saw

Head-to-toe red, when'd I turn this color? My gym shirt is a fair pink now. Will I get in trouble?


I almost think about writing it down and decide to save it and forget it instead. I've got nothing to balance out my mellowness, nothing to match up my happiness. I can't find any picture pretty enough. I'm emotionally detached - me?

No, I'm not. I can convice myself of anything, I'm telling you. Alexis is alright, I'm well-loved, S-B M is dead, sexy boy smiled at me, Alex is a pixie. Alex, you're a, I won't even say - you'd care more than I would! I'm the more apathetic! I'm emotionally detached - me? No, I'm not. I can convince myself of anything, I'm telling you.

One-time-only special! It rains as soon as I sit down, it pours in the sunshine as I sit for hours. I don't know where all my time goes - listening to the same songs over and over, maybe. Nothing in the whole world is relating to me. I'm emotionally detached - me?

No, I'm not. I've got nothing to balance out my mellowness, nothing to match up my happiness. Lesser's coming round to pick up the stuff of his I've got, stuff I've had since we broke up two years ago. Alex's staying away to practice at the dream-shooting range, practices strumming bowstrings in his free time.

All the books I read reviews of are based on the authors' childhoods, as if grown-ups can't relate to fiction. I do understand - I'm pretty emotionally detatched myself.

One, two, three, four, tell me that you love me more
Sleepless, long nights, sighs, what my youth was for
Oh, teenage hopes arrive at your door
Left you with nothing, but they want some more

Oh, oh, oh, you're changing your heart
Oh, oh, oh, you know who you are

Sweetheart, bitter heart, now I can't tell you apart
Cozy and cold, put the horse before the cart
Those teenage hopes, who have tears in their eyes
Too scared to run off, to one little lie
- Feist, "1234"

You Are Almost There

I remember an assignment last year to write about a special place. I'd left it 'til the middle of the night. I'd already done three pages in verse about my perch on the the third-floor balcony, already tried writing something about London. I was doing something with Alex the next afternoon - getting in trouble, I think. I love wordplay. I wrote about the state of anticipation.

"It has unpredictable music in days weathermen will never attempt," it went. "It steps from long-awaited jet planes, waits beside me in carnival queues." It felt like missing the last step, like déjà vu. It made little sense at the time, hardly any now.


Time flies when you're looking forward to something, I thought just the other day. Don't they usually say, "Time flies when you're having fun"? I think I like it better my way.

I almost always do. I'm thinking I'm at my very best when I might get what I want. I know exactly how to make package-tracking numbers work. I can't help but manipulate personality tests. I'm endlessly flexible if I think you're going to be bending with me.

Don't be impatient. I'm preening and polishing, passing for something better until the day I really do it.

Où est Pantoufle?

Chips broken in the dip make me think of sinking ships. Playing Sigur Ròs for anything either-pole-of-the-world-themed is like cards with penguins and polar bears. I'm faking data that's not worth lying about, finding things I don't need, a wooden soldier, a hair elastic, a dime, a peso. My engagement ring's on the table where my little sister left it. Everybody thinks about eggs with the wide end down, but they don't stand up either way.

One-twenty yesterday was the most wonderful time, when Roux returned and the movie ended and Hanting said she had chocolate and asked if I liked caramel and I couldn't even believe her and she gave it to me and I back to her and to that other kid and walked out of class licking it off my fingers and planning to hug anybody all day, not that creep who asked me out last year but maybe Alex's girlfriend, when I thought -

Alexander, it's Easter Sunday and he can't possibly take me to lunch! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it ruined my mood completely.


I got a ruined shirt today and I can't remember where I put it. I was thinking about writing something in the bleached-out patch, something clever... "Colors are bright but they aren't very fast!"

I used to be less cute and a better writer. January last year was really good. That was when I wrote, "no prophet but the past," and, "kiss their kickass shoes," and, "your head is full of canal locks". I had no close friends, wasn't in love with anyone at all, and now even I can't remember the perfect note of insane poetry in the post about cleaning that refrigerator. "Can't use the bookmark without opening the Bible"! It's fabulous -

Can't use the bookmark without opening the Bible
Can't close the door before they hold me liable
Can't show you what to do, who you ought to listen to -

And that's as much as I can come up with.