|to die with music|
The last few days have been replete with connections with Sleepytime Gorilla Museum. Two nights' dreams in a row dealing with SGM concerts. Mother referring to my "morning ablutions." I think she got into me deeper than I wanted her to.
I can't think of SGM now without thinking about her. It seems like I've never done so much for anyone as I did for her when I introduced them. And I have certainly been thinking about her a lot. Her and all the others. They've all got something I want to be close to. But she's the strongest, most recent thought.
When she got me stoned, I felt like she'd turned me into a piece of her furniture. There I was, paralyzed on her couch, twitching, feeling two feet from death, drowning in Alex Grey's hypnotic, measured speech. She was trying to tell me about the guy at work, but I could only chuckle and nod. I couldn't hold onto two words of my own, much less hers. I may have miffed her a bit, and I still feel awful about it. The things she was saying about this distant potential beau of hers made me feel as though she was digging her fingers into my thoughts and slinging them back at me in an impossibly subtle attempt to inspire me to break my stony (ha pun) silence and confess my crush. But my drug-addled mind was far too clever for such a gag. Or I'm just unbelievably paranoid. Yeah, probably that.
She hadn't meant to be so right, I'm sure, but she was. I am so utterly afraid of rejection that I would cling to the concrete secret of my lust for her like a man eager to drown.
It feels like I've ruined myself beyond rescue. I've become such a social hermit I forget what it's like to interact with people and be of potential interest to them. All the girls I might have lingering, misguided crushes on are out of reach, all my chances with them missed entirely. And I ignore the possibility of new ones. They simply aren't going to show up.
The fact remains that I've given up on myself. And neither she nor anyone else will ever want me.