I realized there are at least 100 reasons why I am still here, why I am meant to be here.

The first is you.

I don’t particularly know if I’m ready to write about this all yet. Half the time when people talk about the accident it’s like watching a movie scene, I’m disconnected. But it’s these rare moments when they keep asking questions, when my gut wells up with fear and I begin to feel nauseous, these moments are killing me.

People keep telling me,

“you should see a chiropractor”

“You should see this therapist, she’s a trauma specialist.”

“You should see your primary care physician.”

When I truth, I just want to see him.

This year has been blow after blow, loss after loss. I realized this year that the rules don’t matter a bit in the long run. I’m the most responsible driver I know and-

Bam.

-some guy with a suspended license is driving in the wrong lane, driving head first into my car.

I’m opening my eyes to the smell of smoke and the flashing orange emergency lights thinking fire.

I’m standing at the side of the road with my face numb, my hands covered in blood, trying to scream for help. Watching car after car drive by.

I’m thinking of him.

I’m laying bruised, unable to move, my face swollen and hideous.
None of it is important because he exists.
Because in the end the rules just don’t matter.

So I lied.
So it was the lie to end all.
So I don’t think I can do this.
So.

I watched the words fall from my mouth in slow motion.

Wait a second, what’s going on here? This is the part where I usually wake up.

And then you realize you’re riding on the para-success
Of this heavy-handed metaphor
And a feeling like you’ve been here before
Because you’ve been here before

I dont have even the slightest idea of what to say, so I repeat myself.

Ne vous en faites pas, je t’aime.

(Je n’aime pas les gateau)

Um,

Fuck.

And babe, these bad habits, they keep returning.

I told myself I would find a way to hate you and I’ve only ended up hating myself. Not to worry however, because projecting is one of my greatest talents. I will soon blame you for all of this.

I’m feeling the hole in the dam erode, threatening a burst the could destroy cities. Or relationships.

Or maybe we will all come out of this flood cleansed of our past.

Today was a strange one. But I accomplished some things.

I actually did some walking today to train for my 60-mile breast cancer charity trek from hell. Granted, I should have been doing this months ago, but what does it really matter at this point? I don’t believe in athletic wear, I don’t see the point, so I walked the five miles from home in my red dress(and sneakers). I showed up in the center looking liek I came from a dinner party in a steam room. I’m walking to work tomorrow to continue the momentum, it should be fun. Though it won’t be done in a red dress.

Once I got to Newton Center I ventured into Boston, planning on visiting Flour bakery. I was supposed to call a friend for directions from Copley, but he failed to pick up the phone. So I stumbled around Newbury street, forlorn and longing for a sticky bun. I bought some things, I wandered aimlessly, it was generally pleasant.

Towards the end of the day I found a purse sitting between stacks of t-shirts in one of the stores. It was actually a nice little bag, one of those ridiculously over priced designer brand named coated coach numbers I would never own. I didn’t hand it to the store clerks because I learned from experience they would just have kept the contents.

Funny thing is, this is not the first time some one’s lost wallet or purse has found me. In fact it’s probably the fourth or fifth time. I wandered down Newbury, thinking about every time I’ve returned some one’s wallet cash intact and received no thank you. The last occasion was in providence, and I wasled 40 minutes and up college hill for a girl to wander into a falafel restaurant, grab the wallet and barely say goodbye.

So a moral dilemma hit me. As I went through the bag I found bank receipts listing deposits of thousands of dollars, reciepts all for purchases over $200, a gift card to the Capitol grill, and 30 dollars in cash. I called Nicole for advice on what to do, because the more I looked through Mary Ellen’s bag, the less I liked her or wanted to return it. She lived in Boston but had a New York driver’s license, not very helpful if I was to search for her. I eventually gave the cash to street musicians and artists, and I poured the change at the bottom into a homeless man’s cup. I still have the bag(and the oh so tempting gift card…) but I’ve not decided yet what to do with it. Only tomorrow will tell.

Is it strange that every time my computer says
“Please Enable Cookies”
I yell at it:
“I always allow cookies! They are always accepted into my life, computer!”

http://www.tillys.com/tillys/variants.aspx?prod=124123100&ctlg=020_Girls&ctg=120_Girls_Acc_030_Belts&parentctg=

Must make.

Your heart is shaking chains as it is beats
I know this because I am always listening.

Tell me what you dream of.

I relate to Woody Allen far too heavily. It makes me irrationallly anxious.