The Sunshine State

I've taken to staying up late. Disturbingly late. Reading scribbling my thoughts writing my stories and recording my box-car criticism. During these times my hair grows millimeters. My face doesn't change but the soft spot between my belly button and my heart becomes a little bit womanly. The spongey stuff takes on a completely different shape, something no one else can see. But the way I curl my toes out of nervousness will always stay the same. Child like, along with my too loud laughter. Sometimes I feel like a revolutionary on fire, and sometimes I just get sad. Turn on sad music. I'm thankful for that genteel poet, and the fact that I have two breasts and a vagina. He can sing out my sadness like no one else. Tremendous advantage. Can't turn on that t.v. I'm just waiting for me to get mad. I wonder if people can tell when I'm trying to act like I don't care. I'm tired of watching movies about dystopia and people with terminal illnesses. Life is real scary right now. I've got one more letter that bares my insides that will never be sent. I felt closer to you than you ever could have known. Watch out. One day all this honesty might break out of the binding and come find you. And I know you have a heavy heart I can feel it in your hurried keystrokes and your lack of brush strokes. At one point I hated you so much I wished you couldn't eek out a single stroke for your entire life. I'm not mad or even sad anymore. I would have you paint a mural along my spine. I know what un-returned affection looks like. It's pink cheeks and pretty pictures. Stolen kisses under darkened stairways. Smiling through dates with suburban hacks. But I'll always utter that four-letter word under my breath. I'm certainly not the way you left me, and that's how I intend to be. All inked you wouldn't recognize my landscapes or my aerial views. I would probably call if I still had your number. Worried that no one else in the entire universe will give me that gut punch feeling. Always shoving not enough or far too much. Evaluating every step of some process with no objective. I'd listen if you told me not to worry.

and I always thought I'd be the one leaving.
I heard in Winnetka, California they understand the weight of human hearts.
but I wouldn't go. pale and sickly looks good on you.
Don't go. Don't go. Cool your horses, he says. And then I thought man you should go. get out. change that lethargic life view. get pink and rosy. miss me. or don't. but come back a changed man. Someone who appreciates little things and big alike. maybe you already do. unlike you, I won't claim to know you. so go get on. leave her and me. or maybe she's coming with, that's good too. I suppose.

I do say Hoss, It's already too damn hard to belong to someone who's gone.

And I'm sorry for writing this, you, it's all grime and muck. The dilapidated farmhouse. You know who this is now you know you know. He don't know. He don't care. The historical preservation society. You'll understand because you're working for the same committees on the other side of town. Don't be mad just let some time pass. One month. You're steadfast winning me over. These things take time. It's all about time. Someone said that, me.

Anyway folks ...
I can't get enough of this man. Or Youtube for that manner. Love it.

Jens Lekman

I get to go home tomorrow! My other home. Wahooooo. I get to see new baby (curly red hair, precious). I get to see sisters and brother. Mamda and Pops. Fresh air and nature.
These are all my textbooks for next semester ...
9780811214483
9780943373560
9780486298979
9780811214544
9780520242951
9781574232080
9780520055957
9780393312041
9780446394000
9780553277470
9781567510607
9780375700996
9781594865671
9780761944362
9780787982799
9780536972040
9789990031553
Ha ha ew.

I probably won't update at home. Curse of the dial-up. No technological patience. So miss me hard for two weeks. Wait for nextyear'sstunningconclusion.

(remember last year on New Year's at the Cedar Mansion. The kid hopped up on Uppers, yelling "Where's MY June Carter Cash?" In his friend (a Topher Grace look-alike), I thought that I met my soul-mate. I don't mind admitting when I was desperately wrong. After a few weeks he said I have no idea what color your eyes are ... I think I hit him. It doesn't matter he said, but Bono does!? Besides Cash and The Band he had awful music taste and his mouth tasted even worse. I asked ex-lover the color of my eyes: What are they then? Without a beat he said, "Green, darker around the edges, with little flecks of gold around the pupils." He always knew how to piss me off.)

WhenIsaiddon'tgoI meantdon'tgoandthenIsaidyoushouldgo, well don't go.

Cheers!