Miller's Angels and Portishead
Previous - this entry written on January 04, 2004 at 6:30 pm - Next


So I'm... home?

I'm in Beaverton, at least. I'm not so sure about the 'home' part - I'm feeling disconnected, painfully so. Unmedicated, currently writing this while Becca and Ryan are out running errands. Grr's just barely home, bringing Mikey with her. Caleb's likely still flying.

I'm listening to winamp and thinking.

No, I don't think I could really explain what I'm thinking right now. I don't think it would be a good idea to try, anyway. It usually turns out wrong. Instead I'll give you a very clear picture of my mental state:

I want to be on the coast with Angel, a couple of burned CDs, a bottle of vodka, some hard ciders, a warm blanket or two, and my knives.

I guess I'm feeling unstable. *shrugs slightly* Funny how this feeling, this longing, this old, old ache is the closest I think I'll come to 'home' tonight.

Margery's wingspan's all feathers and coke cans, and
TV dinners and letters she won't send, and
Every race night is shot through with sunlight
Trying to hit the big one
one last time tonight for...
Drunken fathers and stupid mothers and
Boys who can't tell one girl from
another
So she takes her pills
Careful and round
One of these days she's gonna
throw the whole bottle down


It's just that kind of night, somehow. Too much loss for me to cope with, just at the moment. Give me 24 hours to... honestly? To lull myself back into the stupor that keeps me behaving sanely.

You wouldn't believe how close the edge is, just now.

Want to know a secret?







...it's only getting closer.

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