"This memory is not at all significant. There have been more emotional fights, other instances of more-convincing play-acting in twin beds. This story has no point except to remind me that, even if written down, all memories will one day be no more than anecdotes about dead people." Put down a cigarette, pick up a pen.

I quit smoking eight days ago, and I'm sad I'm sad I'm sad I'm sad, and I feel like I'll die if I stop moving

We walked through half-contructed buildings on a sandy boardwalk. I followed my companion into a glass-smooth ocean crowded with boats, houses, swimmers, debris, shoulder to shoulder across the horizon. Swimming was effortless, and it was utterly quiet. I left the water to walk along a dappled path. He followed me to a red brick hall, where a gardener wished us well. We rested in the shade of the hedges. He kissed me like he never did in waking life - calmly, slowly, utterly content. I woke soon after, wistful and empty, to the grey light of morning. How can the death of a moment that left no ghost come back to haunt me?

sitD is back, and it feels so good However, it is a little strange. This place is like a time capsule.

Happy Halloween, fools. Real life starts tomorrow and I am more than a little excited.

I have good days and bad days. I never know how I am going to feel until I wake up and start feeling it. Today may or may not be a bad day. I do not want to be in this computer lab... this state of mind. Yet, here I am. Focus. Focus. Focus.

Just checked out my bank account -- I may just be able to survive this month, with a little help from my dear friend Rob. I feel a lot better. I have been putting off looking at it for so long... but I will manage until November, and the receipt of a lovely signing bonus. Mmmm money. My mantra over the past four months has been: if I can do x, I can do anything. If I can do x and y, I can do everything. Guess what? I have done x, and y, and z. It stands to reason that I am invincible.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him

So here's my moment of indecision: I know he is doing coke again. Do I say something, when I have been so scorned? Or do I sit and wait, and risk losing him forever? (as if I haven't already) I wish I knew what to do.

Since I quit smoking cigarettes, I've come to depend on weed to get me through my day: it's my level, my strength, my motivation to take one more breath. When I wake up in the morning and another day stretches endlessly before me, it takes everything I have not to roll over and hide. Play dead, Claire. Now play happy. Play devoted. Play well-adjusted. Where did this depression come from? It's not the product of any outside influence (though they've all contributed), so it must be mostly internal. I'm terrified of these feelings, and so I smoke and smoke and smoke, and the days pass. I quit smoking cigarettes, and my alcoholism and drug use are now bordering on unhealthy. I may have to make a trade-off, soon, because I can't see this getting any better. Unless I get a fucking job! All these feelings are a probably a product of idleness and obsessive-compulsive flare-ups.

I had a dream about cigarettes last night. And yet, I woke up, and today is another day in my march towards self-fulfillment.

"Beauty is power the same way money is power the same way a gun is power." --Palahniuk

I made my choice. If you want to make me suffer for it... you have that right. I am your puppet, as long as you commit to my strings. I am your pawn, willingly and gratefully. We can play this game, my love. Although I have underestimated your depth, you underestimate my patience. God damn it, I feel more like Dominique Francon everyday. "Of the demonstrably wise there are but two: those who commit suicide, and those who keep their reasoning faculties atrophied by drink." -~Mark Twain

I am well on the road to self improvement, and I like it! Also, I now remember why I got the fuck out of Jersey in the first place, and I can't wait to get back to cp.

"A wise person once told me always looking out for other people is really selfish because you are only looking at what you want, which is to make them happy. But really, if you look at what they want, it is often for you to be happy. So really you need to find a compromise between what you want and what they want to do the most good." -- Noah If life was simple, and love was easy.

I could write a book. I could write more poetry. I could try to get published. I could knit a sweater, paint a room, learn to cook. Learn a language. Read everything I ever put off. Hello, I'm the woman who found out yesterday that her full-time, salaried job doesn't start in two weeks like she planned. I am hereby unemployed until January. Aside from the first moment (read: hour) of panic, I am now actually kind of excited. It's very freeing, to have nothing in front of you for five months. The reality of this situation is probably two part time jobs, no time for Jersey, no money for fun, but let's ignore that for now. In my head, I'm going to have the time of my life. sx rx rr. etc. etc. etc. I'm serious about the poetry, but I learned long ago that you can't force that kind of thing. I wish I had some unbiased criticism, but I am so afraid and this site has become such a ghost town! (coming soon: "histamine.")

Well, I tried to leave you a comment, but it wouldn't work for whatever reason. So here you go: Want to know something funny? The "you" in this post (that's a link) is you. I had just read some entry you wrote, and it applied to me exactly. We have always lived parallel lives, and I feel, to some extent, we probably always will. I'm sorry, too. I was overwhelmed and a child. I wanted to love you, and I meant (or thought I meant) everything I said to you. I never wanted things to end the way they did. I forgave you a long time ago, but pride prevented me from telling you so. Reading all that meant a lot to me, though. Thank you. I hope you are happy and that life is going well. We are the same (I assume) in terms of "some buried part... that still cares." Even after not speaking to you for three years, I feel like I still know you-- which allows me the luxury of assuming that entry was directed to me. If it wasn't, I apologize, and I suck... but we already knew that.

So here we are again, as if a first kiss could ever seem more familiar. I am tired of being a conscience. I don't want to be your moral force-- but I don't know what I do want. I am too tired to feel anything but regret for my unfailing inconsistency. At least it's not as callous as yours! As always, I take you with a grain of salt, wondering if there will ever come a time when I won't have to.

Hello, mortality, you're there in the form of too many cigarettes melanoma and men. We have mutual friends: Bukowski and vodka without chaser. Let's celebrate.

"Recklessness is almost a man's revenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued, so he will risk destroying himself to deprive her altogether." --D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers It's pouring rain, but I am safe and dry in the office. I can faintly hear the thunder through the plate glass. Baby, can you hear it, too?