I’m not the only one, part two September 26, 2009

I wish I just could write you directly.

I can’t, though. It would be harmful…I guess to us both.

Hey. I still love you. Hey. I am still in love with you. Does it matter? Does it matter?

What good is it to have a blog if you can’t ask questions and rue the mistakes you’ve made?

So many…so many that I’ve made.

Just to name a few. Never move for a guy. Should NEVER have moved to Riverside. Who lives in Riverside? Only desperate people. Like me and Paul. Desperate we were.

Why did I leave Seattle? It was MY CHOICE to move to Seattle. Seattle was MINE. It always was. Before it was Paul’s, it was mine. And maybe Brandi brought Dave to Seattle, and maybe Brady and Shannon moved to Seattle, but before all that, someone called Eddie to Seattle. And I don’t care if it was someone connected to Kurt. Cause I really never cared all that much. It’s Eddie’s lyrics that are tattooed on my arms. Eddie. I will always follow you. I will NEVER follow some bullshit guy again. And you, reading my blog, make me some sort of promise, please. Don’t ever follow a guy. I promise you, it’s not worth it. You don’t want to find yourself locked out of a 1-bedroom in Riverside, or alone in Bellingham. Or anything else. You never want to find yourself alone and bored in San Jose. Please…live your own life.

Of course…I am still addicted, my voice is still not heard. My being is still lost between here and there. For someone that drank her twenties away, I am still cogniscent and, well…sad.

In my  biography, there is the Upland Library, that has nothing to do with anything, except that when I remember it, I wish I could take you there. But I can’t. Because you left me before I left you, and I’m left with this stupid big old rock that nobody understands but me and other Upland rejects.

I’m not the only one that loves you. I made my family love you, and they probably still do. Love doesn’t end that easily, although we all wish it would.

I’m not the only one (who loves you) September 18, 2009

I love it when you break my heart. You do it so often, I may as well get used to it, huh?

And you know what’s funny? My jealousy. It’s so abject and absurd. What do I care about those other girls? It certainly doesn’t matter anymore.

I erased my myspace, only to want to cut myself a little deeper by listening to the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard, song in part by one girl who was a vision of my jealousy. But it’s somehow comforting. And to distance myself from the real myspace, I borrowed the best alias a girl could – one deceased grandmother who practically has the same birthday and name as me. God bless you, grandma. Thank you for being a party to my demise. Maybe I’ll see you soon.

“I’m not the only one…that loves you…” she sings, a tiny death in my heart, partly because, well, it’s just a beautiful song, and she’s singing about “I don’t know who you’ve been, or who you’ve been with…” and so on and so forth…but a tiny death because…well, shit, because I can’t sing like this. Or can I?

I’m not the only one that loves you. Or am I?

My tears and years certainly don’t love you, rather, they hold things against you, like geography and promises and sketches of people we might have been.

Oh! How funny it is. How truly comical is my life. How incredibly ironic and entertaining and…so funny. SO ironic is my life. That I followed you back to my own insecurities just to be left in the dust once, and then, when I finally find a voice of my own, it is tempered by Jameson, your drink, it sits alone in the dark, smoking Parliaments, listening to this song, of all songs. I’d laugh, but it’s just too sad right now.

It’s funny, ain’t it, how a broken heart just simmers, until maybe all the blood just boils away, and I’m left with the memories of life lost.

Thanks, Margie Lee Davis, for giving me your name. At least, for tonight.

And you, the destroyer of me, well, I’ve got nothing left to say to you…for now.