Ciao October 14, 2009

Ciao, signora.

Another, oh, another one, creeping along and I just wait for this to end. The minutes spent sitting, pensive, searching eyes for a way out. Like an orphan on a solitary train bench, I sit here, waiting for my own deliverance.

I need a savior, tall, dark and liquid. For each squint into the bottom of that bottle, I’m searching for answers, looking for recovery. My elbows are sore, skin worn away with worry, and I keep drinking, night after night, because it is an escape from this empty track.

There is a hole in the universe, mirrored here in my heart, this emptiness that beats on, void of meaning but reading into everything wrong.

I understand why cutters cut, it’s to see results written in red ink on pale skin and I wonder which is worse: grinding teeth or ripping flesh.

I understand why users use, it’s to know that somebody needs them to survive, even if their survival is contingent upon certain death, though it’s in no one’s best interest to die that fate.

I understand why strippers strip, it’s to show the truth to liars, even if it means robbing the honesty within themselves, because the layers that are peeled cannot be replaced.

I understand why killers kill, it’s because the words are misspelled and the pages scrawled and the headaches just won’t go away until something loud replaces the mundane.

I understand why drinkers drink, it’s because we’re too cowardly to step outside the realm of liquid courage, and the way it trickles out of our souls and into somebody else’s bed is too easy to give up.

I am in a constant state of drink. Coffee mugs and soda cans litter my place and get me high until the clock chimes somewhere, when these receptacles are replaced by clinking colored bottles that numb me back to nothingness.

I repeatedly raise these instruments to my mouth in the hopes that I will be refreshed, replenished, that I can glow and be filled with something other than fatigue, that I can shine and be something else.

Another hard day followed by a hard night followed by a hard day.

So hold up your glass to me, say your toast to me, and remember me, my name and how for a time, my eyes were open just wide enough to refill my glass and blink this all away.

Dear Ben Gibbard: Go fuck yourself October 7, 2009

Here’s my favorite riddle:

Am I a sad bastard because I listen to Death Cab for Cutie* or do I listen to Death Cab for Cutie* because I am a sad bastard?

*Also see: The Decemberists, anything that’s ever been on a Grey’s Anatomy episode, Elliott Smith, and many, many more.

So. Here are my playlists on iTunes:
Best of Pearl Jam
Breakup Music
Goodnight Moon (sleepy-time music)
Hardcore shit
Sad Bastard tunes
Sexy songs
You Know What**

**Denotes vibrator music

The underlying theme? I listen to a lot of sad music. In fact, the playlist I listen to most is “Breakup Music,” because I was going to make The One To Whom We Try Not To Refer To (aka Voldemort, aka The One That Got Away, aka The Love of My Life, aka The One Who Broke My Heart, aka All 130 Pounds of Him) a breakup cd, but I think making him two get-back-together cds (Aptly named “Dave Now” and “Dave Valentines,” in addition to making him the Best of X, which is sometimes sad bastard) was probably sufficient.

I know, I know. I shouldn’t do this. I already had my mom “yell” at me earlier (more of an [sigh] “Oh Molly. Just MAKE yourself get over him.” Thanks, Ma. What helpful advice…at least she is sending me a few scarves and hats for the forthcoming winter) for dwelling on and second guessing this whole breakup. Well, fuck. I was in love. I still am. It doesn’t just disappear like the many Newcastles I had tonight did.

You know what really kills me? My eyes. They literally hurt. Whenever I close them. I think it’s my subconscious, because when I sleep, I dream of him. All sorts of hims. Usually good ones. So I’m reluctant to fall asleep, because when I do, he’ll be there. When I wake, it’ll just be me and the pillow body next to me (I’ve always HATED body pillows, but more than once this summer, I’ve considered getting one). And Chester. God bless my bear.

So what do you listen to when your heart turns to black and all you can do is smoke cigarettes, do shots of his whiskey and drink “your” beer? Use your raspy voice to sing along in the mornings, when no one else is around, and take a long time getting dressed, trying to remember to wear lipstick, because you can now, there’s no one’s face or lips to smudge it on. And not know whose white undershirt it is exactly when you go to sleep. And try to sleep on both sides of the bed, or at least in the middle, although a queen is a lonely thing sometimes. And try to forget, forgive and move along.

But, dear reader, if you find yourself wallowing in pity and trying your damnest not to myspace-stalk someone whose heart still hovers in yours, listen to my breakup songs, and see if you find some comfort, some answers, and the realization that other people hurt, too*.

*But not in that gay, Michael Stipe-R.E.M. “Everybody Hurts” way. He’s just whiny.

The Scarlet Tide – Allison Krauss
Breath (2 AM) – Anna Nalick
What Can I Say – Brandi Carlile
Stay or Leave – Dave Matthews
Highway One – Dead Rock West
State Street Residential – Death Cab for Cutie
It’s Just That Everything I Try to Do, Nothing Seems to Turn Out Right – The Decemberists
The Engine Driver – The Decemberists
Jolene – Dolly Parton
No Name No. 5 – Elliott Smith
Good to Go – Elliott Smith
Sullen Girl – Fiona Apple
I Know – Fiona Apple
Know When to Walk Away – Jay Clifford
Last Goodbye – Jeff Buckley
The Fear You Won’t Fall – Joshua Radin
Love Will Tear Us Apart – Joy Division
Nowhere Warm – Kate Havanik
Clean Getaway – Maria Taylor
Inside Job – Pearl Jam
Hold On – Pearl Jam
Crown of Thorns – Pearl Jam covering Mother Love Bone
3 Libras – A Perfect Circle
Paint’s Peeling – Rilo Kiley
Please Read the Letter – Allison Krauss and Robert Plant
Feel It Coming – Sara Melson
The Difficult Kind – Sheryl Crow
Three Seed – Silversun Pickups [OUR song. Goddamnit.]
Where Does the Good Go – Tegan and Sara
Getaway – Train
Around My Heart – X

Prison Sex September 26, 2009

“I was so young, vestal then, you know it hurt me.
But I’m breathing, so I guess I’m still alive…”

I love that Tool song. I love Tool. I can’t honestly say that I can understand or identify with much of what is specific in their songs, particularly this one (I only just learned what “Stinkfist” was really about last year…naive!), but I don’t know, there’s just something inherently sexy and human about Maynard and his music. And I don’t just mean “sexy” like Justin Timberlake sexy, no, no, no, but pure, violent, beautiful, perverse, unique SEX. And I love and miss that.
I suppose I just miss sex, but I’ve been thinking about a LOT lately, about life and love and myself and what I want.
Question. Is it okay to have sex for the sake of having sex?
For some people, of course. And I maybe used to be one of those people. But now? Part of me says “what’s the point?” while another part says “yes, please!”
Universal dilemma. Can you really get over someone by getting under someone else? For the sake of research alone, I feel compelled to try. But I know I’ll be disappointed, and I know I will continue to be disappointed, unless I happen to find someone who feels the same way I do about Tool and Maynard James Keenan and abstract sexuality like mine.
AH! But the irony is, I already found that person. And I let him go. Or maybe he let me go. Or maybe we let each other go.
But I’m not finished. And I need help.
So. Do I keep getting back on the horse, no pun intended, or do I cross my fingers and pray and hope and wish on stars that The One Who Already Understands Me will come back?
I know, I know, if you love something, let it go…but is that enough? That’s not a guarantee.
Meanwhile, I am going to listen to Tool at top volume and find my way to a Newcastle. Pun intended.