Fact

The problem with thinking about you is that it breaks my heart.

Now I can sleep

Tonight, I am anxious. I am sad. I did not want to do the dishes tonight. I feel like I've been cleaning dishes for  three days straight. I want to boycott the kitchen. I wish I didn't have to eat. I wish I didn't get hungry. At least for right now, I'm over food. The last thing I saw you do was wash dishes. You washed dishes in the kitchen while I went to bed sad, crying over us. Your back was to me, you were in your boxers frantically washing dishes, because you just didn't know what to do with yourself, or your thoughts. I feel so stupid. Why did I ever let myself get so sad around you?
I look for your comfort in places I know I won't get it. Sometimes (like tonight) this makes me feel very uncertain about my life, and about the choices I make for myself. It's painfully obvious that I want affection, and want to feel good.  I want to be hugged and kissed, and told that everything's going to be alright. But, this just isn't my life. Why can't I accept the life that I do have?  This is not the best state to be in, but I can't ignore how I feel either. The dishes were hard to do tonight. The last time I saw you, you had your back to me. I wish I had asked you to come to bed. I don't know if it would have made a difference, but god how it pains me, the last moment of you in my life, you at the sink feeling so utterly alone, lost in your anxiousness, and me in the bed doing nothing to make things better. My stubborn pain locking me in my own stupid personal narrative. Maybe we needed a break, because fuck, that's just how people are sometimes, and that's just what they need from each other,  but if only that night I had said, "Come to bed. Don't wash those dishes. Let me love you despite me," I would feel a whole lot better now. There were many things I wanted. There were so many plans. They all included you. I'm sorry if that was unclear at times. Sometimes it was unclear to me too, but deep in my heart I thought we'd be safe from ever feeling pain this great. I suffered for my foolishness. I was weak.

Hard names of the world unite!

Why is it so motherfucking hard for people to spell my last name correctly? I mean, I understand if you can't spell it off the top of your head, but people, who know me, who have me in their contacts list- get it together, spell check your shit. If you're making sure neighborhood, collaboration, loquacious, or serendipitous are spelled right, for the love of God, share with me the same amount of respect you give these words, and spell check my motherfucking name. Thank you.

And so begins a series of venting...

I miss you Mr. Mejia. (Meh-hee-ah!)

31

I spent your birthday in self imposed bed exile.
16 hours of much needed dreaming.
I say this for two reasons:
I had so many dreams.
I haven't dreamt this much in awhile.
Dreams of psilocybin mushrooms.
A tooth abscess enclosed in the tissues of my jaw bone,
 the apex of an infected tooth's root spewing puss like a fountain.
The arena
of joy and sorrow happily cascading streams of vivid pictures
against my sleeping eyes
as in all to be a symphony singing
something special for something 
that happens just once a year. 
Something like a birthday that is at once so celebrated
and so deceivingly nostalgic
that it hurts too much
and you feel that you've been robbed of true beauty, 
but then the puss recollects in your mouth- and the 
beauty of fighting a true fight resurfaces all over again
and you feel as right as rain as right as rain as right as rain.

Quick! Somebody pull the e-break!

Stop the ride! I want to get off! I don't want to remember that your birthday is this Friday. I don't want to think about how you should be turning 31. You were 29. Dead at 29. In less than two weeks I turn 32. You are dead at 29. You should be 31. This Friday.
The other day, I logged into your facebook, and an old friend of yours commented on the most recent profile pic I posted of you- the one where you are holding your niece Elianna. He sent you a message saying something along the lines of, "Hey hey, long lost friend, feels like yesterday we were getting into trouble, and now it looks like we're both bouncing babies on our knees, heh heh, ha ha, lol..." I hate him. I don't know him, but I hate him. I'm sorry.
I love you too much to get over you sometimes. I hate birthdays.
I promise to write a nicer post before month's end. Just let me rant for a little first, okay?

sounds

nemenemenemenemnemenemenemenemenemenemene

oh. Oh. OH.  oh.

nemenemenemeneme

I want to hear a whistled "yes" so bad. 

Spring is here.

As you know, it's been a rough week for me. Missing you. Wishing you were here. Waking up in the morning with your death so very fresh, and at the very start of my day- everyday. I get tired. I get lost. I wonder what the hell I'm supposed to be doing. Am I doing okay? Should I be doing something else? It's hard to make up my life- to fill in all that time. What should I fill it with? What kind of stuffing do I put into this cavity of where my joy used to be?
Life is hard.
And I'm not just saying that.
It is, hands down, hard.
It is a strange blessing. A weird fish.
Detroit is unseasonably warm- just like New York, and everywhere else.
Spring has arrived.
Another season without you.
I get it, but how do I get over it? 
Stuffing. Lots of stuffing.