Vibes and Stuff

My laundry is my laundry. I see no need to front. Won’t make it any cleaner, any dirtier. Won’t change my sheltered past, my corrupt present. The contradictions in a playlist of Otis Redding, Flobots, and Tribe Called Quest. I don’t care. I need a plan. I’m always so amused by the plan looking back on it from the reality. The plan right now: NY through the spring, maybe the summer, then Afghanistan, maybe Iraq, just a year, pay off the student loans, get some perspective, some reality, back to NYC, freedom, do what I want regardless of a small pay check, save the world. That’s the plan, right now. The long term on the short term. The short short term? Tonight, I’m gonna get a little high and write a final, drink wine on my balcony, tomorrow I’ll repent at the gym. This weekend I’m not going home, I’m staying my ass in Brooklyn, going to the parade, spending time with friends, people who make me more of who I am. Everyone is so sad for me not going home, I don’t get it. Most of these people i know for a fact will come back from this break crazier than when they left, due to the drama inherent in family gatherings. Sue me for not wanting to partake to participate in this process for once in my life. The weekend after, my mom comes to the city. I’ve been working through how to be around her with my friends, with my therapist. I dont know if I can look at her with this knowledge. It’s an awakening, an enlightenment, I don’t see two or three colors anymore, I see all of them. So who knows what happens with this object from my childhood, how she integrates with the adult I am now. Who knows. I need a mom. All the shit that’s been going down. Suing my old roommate, losing all this fucking money to get data back, buy a new computer, embracing my childhood trauma, making life altering decisions to play therapist in a desert. She was always my friend. I want to tell her about the hot guy I met at work, i want to talk about the movies i’ve seen, my friends, my enemies, my passions. But I dont know if I can. Somewhere along the way there was a break down. A rip between who I am and who she thinks I am. Sewing it up seems impossible, as impossible as negotiating the the waters enough to cross over to her. Always worried I’ll scare somebody off if I show myself. People seem to like the image they create of me when I stay quiet and appeasing. That’s not me. That’s me on anxiety. Me free, is something to see. Something to fucking behold. People should be so fortunate. It’s so rare. This self state that feels pure and joyous to me. I don’t know what or who triggers it or how to maintain. I just see these flashes of the person I am and I stop breathing for fear she’ll evaporate in the atmosphere. Substances get me there, wavelengths get me there, laughter gets me there, survival of trauma gets me there. Working in trauma feels so good to me because of this. The only way I know how to bond, survive. I love the crazy creatures I’m drawn to. It’s not surprising normal, healthy people never stick. The men I end up with the friends I end up around, always a little more unstable, a little more colorful, a little more beautiful than everyone else. I’m okay with that.