Sunday, February 21, 2010


A: whenever i see something exquisite and beautiful i'm compelled to steal if for you. yesterday it happened to be a thermos with gems encrusted on the top. the day before that it was this delicate scarf with the loveliest print. you wouldn't even want them, but they'd fit so perfectly along side you. still, i never actually run off with these things because who would i give it to? i suppose i could place it on top of your grave, beside that headstone.

A: oh don't act like you didn't know, they must have told you. it's the plot i created after the idea manifested in my head - the plot to end all the plots i'd been leaning on for comfort. or just to keep my balance so i don't fall from this into you. and i figure the grieving will stop if i give you a proper burial and an honest eulogy. i'll no longer yearn for you once you're decayed and rotten like the actions you've taken.

A: and to answer your question i did feel somewhat like Ray Kinsella, except this was a shallow grave where only you would rest with all that i bequest to you. and i didn't dig it so you would come, i dug it so you'd go. everything will be much better once you're down below.

A: of course i'm sure it wasn't dug with a time capsule in mind. what, so i could extract it all in good time and indulge myself in you? i'd end up toiling instead, repetitions of all the horseshit you've said. so, i just patted down the last heap of dirt, you will rot there and never be unearthed. unless a scavenger comes to eat the meat off your bones, to which i wouldn't object. what? the meat must be good cause you ate me alive when i fed off your lies.

A: if you resurrected i'd beat you back to death, or...stay in my room and allow you your space? okay of that i'm not sure, i haven't though that deep. no, i'm hanging up now, going back to sleep.

Aside: the arrangements have been made, we can't be saved.

Thursday, February 18, 2010


i'm taking this psychology class, it's a basic 101. on the second day of class my professor described how if people thought about their own mortality on a constant basis it would most likely result in depression. people asking themselves "why bother getting up today? i'm going to eventually die anyway"

it made me realize i'm in a whole other boat, even if it's sinking at the same exact rate. one where i tend to believe the life granted to me is such a rarity even with death being certain. life is the greatest gift that could possibly be bestowed upon a soul. how am i here in this body, controlling what i do? i look at myself sometimes and i just say to myself "holy shit, i'm really here". it's not my impending death that scares me, it's the likelihood of life continuing on. i have the next 80 years to fill up and i get overwhelmed just thinking about it. it becomes an ongoing preoccupation where i can't decide what i want to do. it stifles me the same way it would the pessimistic pansy who tortures himself as he repeatedly harps on the unavoidable sorrows of death.

i have no idea what i'm going to do. ever. not in a million years.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Just Like This

yeahhh, maybe tomorrow.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Strangled By An Apparition

i woke up in the middle of the night and i was crying. i was tightly clutching my own shoulder, and as i tried to release the grasp my muscles ached as the tension died away. i continued to cry for a couple seconds until i was completely still. my body and subconscious couldn't forgive my conscious mind for failing to remember the trauma, an apparent nightmare.

this all comes a couple days after i let out these little whimpers on my walk to school one morning. the weather wasn't particularly bad, and i wasn't particularly sad. but it was indisputably the sound that is produced - maybe in preparation, maybe in prevention - when someone is just about to cry. at the time it aroused questions in my mind as to where my day was going, but everything turned out fine from there on.

so i'm just angry with my subconscious. it should be following suit with the rest of me, not nudging me towards a mental breakdown.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Wilder On Ice

Dear Diary,

I finally went ahead with that laser eye surgery I had been putting off. I haven't seen a thing in two days, and my attitude towards Phil has reached disgust. Without the sight of his perfect jawline and flawless skin i remember what a dull man he is, previously i would have labeled him merely an annoyance . He has completely lost sight of his life, or rather just life.

Just to throw some salt in the wound he asked his mother to stay with us and help me out with the children. She's a wicked woman, and I've despised every ounce of her since the day she told Phil not to marry me. She cited my background. Her mother was a stateswoman for years who finally made headlines when she legalized the solicitation of sex. Her father was a pirate, but I always interpreted this as a lie she used to conceal the fact that her mother had no idea who her real father was.

Anyway her own mother bred her like a thoroughbred. In fact my favorite story is one where Mrs. Wilder was just a girl out front on their Massachusetts estate and she was playing in the garbage with some of her cousins. When her mother got wind of the situation she ran outside like the house was going to burn down behind her and she screamed "Marcy if you pick up trash like that one day in the future you'll be picked up by trash". The young Mrs. Wilder briskly turned to her mother and shot back that maybe her future was so bright she was just blinded by it sometimes, thus leading her to err. She was eight at the time. I guess her mother had known all too well about playing with garbage, and the repercussions associated with doing so.

Tonight I'm supposed to go for drinks with the girls, but I informed them I won't be dragged around like some sort of invalid just because of these hideous glasses I have to wear. However, I do intend to keep to myself especially since rumor has it the Davenports are having marital spats daily and the mister is a frequenter at the bar. I've been smitten with him since they moved to the block, and i'm going to make certain he doesn't see me in this incapable state.

Damn my lousy eyes.

Elizabeth Wilder

Monday, February 1, 2010

I'll Wait For Your Call Next Winter

i'm watching some crap tv show and i'm waiting for you, to do what i don't know. but here i am alone, well not exactly, but you know. the type of alone that keeps you hesitating when maybe you should be rejoicing in happiness. the kind that expires during the day but catches up with you at night. it was right there waiting, it didn't move.

and sitting here with an empty bottle of wine that isn't mine, characters in a match i've yet to win. when i remember how wrong i've been. its just there was this time i packed my wine in a dollar arizona iced tea can to catch the train and a guy told me he knew something was funny. you could easily see the dark red wine caught atop the lid. i felt like a bum with baggage then who wasn't at all funny, and i still do now. yet i drunkenly ruminated with him over everything you did, and we decided it was all venial - just wish you felt the same. you could let go of the careless moments i wasn't engaged to all the good everyone thought i was.

back at home i laugh and stare up because truthfully i can't get over anything, and then no feeling comes over me, but everyone gets over me.
wish i could get it.
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