like a violent crime (calitetra) wrote,
like a violent crime
calitetra

  • Music:

your skin is something that I stir into my tea

We decided in November to break up on Christmas day. It's an involved story, which I'll spare you. So we broke up and now he's on his way to Argentina. I feel like someone took an organ out of my middle, and I can feel where the hole is. His goneness feels large already.

But I managed to have a nice Christmas, Billy-etomy aside. I was given many lovely things from thoughtful lovely people and I liked seeing people like what I gave them. Thank you to those who sent me merry wishes, and also thanks to you few who knew and have condoled with me. Try saying that last phrase outloud, the rhyming has an interesting and unintentional music to it. "To you few who knew."

Music! I now own a lovely soprano ukulele. I must learn to play it. And tune it. I also now own a Zippo lighter that says "Fuck Communism" on it. That's another involved story that I don't know by heart yet; I need to take notes the next time it's told to me.

I'm unemployed, I live at home, my best friend is in South America for months, my climbing gym membership just expired and I can't afford to renew it, rendering my lovely climbing-related presents sad and deferred. But life is not at all bad. Some people I don't see very often are home for the holiday and some people I don't see very often live near me year round, so I have lots of folks to seek out and conversate with. I'm looking up auditions and not talking myself out of going to them. I'm recognizing that I need to look for a job that will pay me money. I finally got my room set up the way I like it.

One of my pillows still smells like that spiking glue he would put in his mohawk. Like coconut milk made of plastic. The flowers he gave me on Saturday when he surprised me with an ice skating date have withered. I don't really have a conclusion. Or a nice way to wrap this up.
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