It Was Real Enough To Make Me Cry. Three Times.

I dreamed I woke up. Not on the couch where I fell asleep, but back in Kyle's bed, in his arms. And we woke up and started getting dressed and there was a noise. It was his mother. He said "I think that's my mom, you might want to put your pants on or something". She walked in and said good morning. We finished getting dressed and left, went to some diner for lunch and he was so sweet to me and he smiled at me and kissed me and held my hand. I asked him what day it was, to show me his phone to see what year it was because I wanted to know if it was real or not. It was 11:23 ae em, January 15, 2002. And I knew I had to wake up and it would be gone and that's what I said to him, and I started crying.
He held me until I woke up for real.
Ok, real enough to make me cry four times.

Funeral.

I spent 3 hours in a car, from 6 onward, with my dad this morning. we went through three albums driving to Peoria. In Peoria there's the Order of Saint Francis motherhouse. My great aunt Boots was a Franciscan sister. She's dead now.
How could I resist a funeral for a woman I barely knew who was disintegrating in her old age and faith?
She looked like she was sleeping. Normally dead people in their caskets look a little off, like they aren't real. That was definitely my aunt Boots in there, taking a nap. It freaked me out and my dad teased me about the secret cigarette I couldn't do without.
It was, of course, a funeral mass. I've never been to a catholic funeral before so I really didn't know what to do, but I was a good catholic for a hour or so. I sang along to all of the hymns and did all of the responsorial shit and took communion, er, the eucharist, er, whatever.
And when I said "amen" to that priest, I meant it more than I wanted to. And when the younger nun told me she'd pray for my cat to mellow out, I believed her more than I know I believe in prayer.
I'm a little bit in shambles, very uncomfortable. I have been for the past few days. And I just bit all of my fingernails off.
I quit biting my nails, right?

To end things:
My phone number is 708-220-6806. I don't give it out. Now it's on the internet for anyone to call and I will field all of those calls.
and for Lucy, stop that. I did the same thing when Winsty told me.

See Jack.

Jack is 16, and Jack is adorable, and Jack is my little brother's friend, and Jack has panic disorder, and Jack sometimes wears glasses, and Jack was named for Jack Kerouac, and Jack is going to grow up into something even more wonderful than what he is now, and Jack is a good kisser, and Jack probably wont ever be my friend now even though I'd like him to be, and Jack doesn't usually smoke cigarettes, and Jack got beaten up on new year's eve, and Jack is from Hegewisch, and Jack has two cats, and Jack makes me think about that dreseden dolls song even though he and the song are in no way related, and Jack sometimes drinks too much, and Jack used to stare at me when I was in high school, and Jack is this huge fucking looming representation of everything that conflicts inside of me and everything that I absolutely adore and loathe at the same time, and Jack is my instability.

I feel horrible. Don't hate me. Don't think I hate you. Someday you'll be older and this will go away and we can be friends. Hopefully it won't take too long.

This Time The Mark It leaves Is Socially Acceptible.

Normally when a new permanent line or word appears on my body, it's something I can't talk about. Social taboo. Nobody wants to hear about how you're suffering and what you did to yourself to deal with it. This time I went to the tattoo parlor, and it wasn't my suffering that caused it.
It was a guy in a camouflage bandanna named Eric. Always with the Erics.
I went in a few days ago to price the thing, my raggedy ann heart. The woman was wonderful and I wished I had enough money to do it then and there. But I didn't, and she said 100 dollars and it was 100 dollars.
When I came back earlier today the place was crowded. What place? Tatu Tatoo on north. It's the place right down the street and I chose close over inexpensive or talented. It's a simple design so it didn't matter. Thought I would be waiting forever, but it only took about 15 minutes before my tattoo artist, Eric, came down and hooked me up. He put my design into the computer(and by put my design into the computer, i mean opened up photoshop, pulled up a heart and put the text inside), and made the stencil thing.
Half an hour later I walked out 100 dollars lighter and with a tattoo. It didn't hurt like people said it would. It's real, real sharp. Looks like a stamp. If you haven't seen it, check out the photo blog.

We Don't Live Here Anymore...

Last saturday I moved. A week ago. There was a lot of packing and secretly smoking in the house and being sad. Now we don't live in Pilsen but in Wicker Park. I hated to leave, even though staying would have been some sort of death wish.
I don't like living in Wicker Park already. There are too many white people, and they make me uncomfortable. Nothing to activate a self loathing that's almost invisible like being surrounded by people who remind you of you. And when I'm self loathing, do I ever loathe myself....
I love the actual apartment. The space is breathtakingly simple, and it felt like home upon walking into it for the first time. I'm gonna stay there as long as I possibly can. Sarah, the new girl, is wonderful. I like her. Haven't seen meg in a few days.
New years eve I fucked up my hip. Later on the friendliest face I know showed up to make me feel better, or maybe just because he was drunk. I don't care because I like to have him around.
I hope I can keep him.