![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
In Which Raybear Loses His Self-Editor
Look, I don't know. Christ. Get it together and fck off because whatever it is you think I am, it's apparently not it.
I have a bruise on my hand, along with some small scabs. It came from Sophie -- yesterday morning in an effort to run at breakneck speed and attempt to get to the bottom of the stairs before me (despite having her leash on), my hand got slammed into the edge of the heavy wooden back door.
It seems like I've bruised my hands several times this year. They aren't the same bruises as ones on your leg or arm -- there's very little purple or blue or yellow-green. It's more that my vein seems a bit more visible, and the skin is tender to most any touch. In this specific case, I also have the rawess of the scrapes -- my skin removed in small chunks that form a constellation pattern. A skinny Orion on my hand, under my index knuckle. I stare at it while typing. I examine the dents.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Friday at Circuit I made a move at a boy. He caught me looking at him and vice versa. He was such a bottom. Or maybe straight. It was unclear. I managed to work my way over to him and we were eventually dancing together. I mean, there was still nearly 2 feet between us, but the attention was focused and there. I got impatient. After the remix of "For My People". I figured I'd ask him if he wanted a drink from the bar. If he said yes, or if he said no, but was still in the same corner when I returned, he'd be interested then something more than dancing. So I asked. He said "no, I'm fine, man" and put his hand on my arm for 1.3 seconds. I turned around and told Damon I'd be ready to go soon. When I got back from the bar with my overpriced water, he had disappeared.
Damon seemed surprised and impressed I spoke to him. This surprised me, since he's one of the most forward people I know. Maybe it's not so much the action alone, but the fact that I performed it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I e-mailed my parents. I seemed inordinately cheery. I hate myself sometimes. I hate them more. I refuse to be the one that actually cuts them off in an official way, but I hate that I've been dangling for nearly 2 years. Two whole years of not know where the fck I stand or whether they've made progress or even plan on making progress. I don't know if I should stop. Or if I want to stop. That's what's fcked up -- I still have urges to do nice things and tell them nice things and share with them, despite their lack of....anything. I just don't know anymore. Well, not that I knew before, but now I'm admitting it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My hand hurts.
I have a bruise on my hand, along with some small scabs. It came from Sophie -- yesterday morning in an effort to run at breakneck speed and attempt to get to the bottom of the stairs before me (despite having her leash on), my hand got slammed into the edge of the heavy wooden back door.
It seems like I've bruised my hands several times this year. They aren't the same bruises as ones on your leg or arm -- there's very little purple or blue or yellow-green. It's more that my vein seems a bit more visible, and the skin is tender to most any touch. In this specific case, I also have the rawess of the scrapes -- my skin removed in small chunks that form a constellation pattern. A skinny Orion on my hand, under my index knuckle. I stare at it while typing. I examine the dents.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Friday at Circuit I made a move at a boy. He caught me looking at him and vice versa. He was such a bottom. Or maybe straight. It was unclear. I managed to work my way over to him and we were eventually dancing together. I mean, there was still nearly 2 feet between us, but the attention was focused and there. I got impatient. After the remix of "For My People". I figured I'd ask him if he wanted a drink from the bar. If he said yes, or if he said no, but was still in the same corner when I returned, he'd be interested then something more than dancing. So I asked. He said "no, I'm fine, man" and put his hand on my arm for 1.3 seconds. I turned around and told Damon I'd be ready to go soon. When I got back from the bar with my overpriced water, he had disappeared.
Damon seemed surprised and impressed I spoke to him. This surprised me, since he's one of the most forward people I know. Maybe it's not so much the action alone, but the fact that I performed it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I e-mailed my parents. I seemed inordinately cheery. I hate myself sometimes. I hate them more. I refuse to be the one that actually cuts them off in an official way, but I hate that I've been dangling for nearly 2 years. Two whole years of not know where the fck I stand or whether they've made progress or even plan on making progress. I don't know if I should stop. Or if I want to stop. That's what's fcked up -- I still have urges to do nice things and tell them nice things and share with them, despite their lack of....anything. I just don't know anymore. Well, not that I knew before, but now I'm admitting it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My hand hurts.
no subject
Dude.. you just totally summed up how I've felt about my own set of parents. I find that I tell my therapist who is your therapist that I refuse to put any extra energy into them given their lack of reciprocation or response, but yet, I find myself wanting to actively love them and share my life with them. It's a fcked up thing though..and it makes me feel like a glutton for punishment or something.
I hope our respective situations resolve themselves soon..and that y'all are feeling better over at your house.
Love you buddy,
Riley