Aches.

Stabbed in the gut, twisting around some invisible knifeblade that is scrambling my insides, rearranging them without care or kindness. No blood. No fuss. No mess. Just this agonizing why-aren't-I-already-dead pain.

Our webspace hosts are being nightmarish. Not gonna go into the whole long rant, but let's just say we are DEFINITELY looking for a new one. This sucks.

I've been writing hard copy of late... musings, ramblings, trying to put down memories on paper every chance I get. I'm tempted to... ah, fuck it, I'll give in to temptation and write it up here.

--- begin cheezy ramblings ---

fragments -- sitting on the low-rise in the Village Inn, watching Kadin eat pancakes. Taste of syrup on fingers. Missing the feel of Caleb beside me as I wait for breakfast. Soda thirst and small-boy kisses. The liquor store opens at 11:00 am and it's only 9:30. Realization: if I ask the allergy specialist to test a spermacide, my mom will throw a fit. She still doesn't accept sex before marriage and I think she would rather I was pregnant than *gasp* using birth control.

"Tool" is playing in the restaraunt kitchen and tacky old country music is playing out here - guess where I would rather eat? Sore left hand and me thinkin of Spike-boy courtesy of the phrase 'red right hand', a flashback to music videos and Kadin's webpage. Dismay that I can't hyperlink when I write with pen and ink.

Overheard: "What is it, a spider? No, Sandra is the demonstrator. She's creepy."

Remembering another fact: only a few have been truly protective. Cheap wine, fizzing, kneeling and then sprawled helpless and pleading for rescue with my eyes. He saw... and you could replace 'he' with so many names, you might think, but you would be wrong. No. Only a few have cared enough, known enough.

New day, new place, and still I find memories I... perhaps wish I could forget? Daydreaming of times past, good and bad both. Angel wants my company. Is it shame, or desire, or fear, or misplaced love that urges me to accept? Why is it that in the worst times, when I'm left chanting a name, holding to one verbal talisman for protection against the pain and the darkness, it's her name I murmur? When they fucked up the IV, the third time they tried to push in the needle, I was motionless. No tears. No panic, while they tried. Only her name on my lips, over and over. No fear, until they failed.

Strange that I can find strength in someone I've barely seen in years. Stranger still, to think maybe she still cares. Is 'care' even the right word? I wish I knew what she thought.

I... horrible little letter, 'I', posessive and greedy, taking no one else into account. More pleasing to hear a slave, third-person spilling gracefull off an eager, willing tongue... and once mroe, full circle, my thoughts return to my boys. I remember Victoria - isabella then - buying me fangs, sitting while a boy whose name I've forgotten took casts, made my teeth.

Caleb was there, though I still thought of him as the bear man. He wore a kilt. He smiled at me like his heart was breaking. I had eyes for everyone then, wanting OUT of where I was, what I was, hungry for any touch that meant I was desired.

Filthy.

Ashamed, and hiding it in lust. Some things never really change, I guess...

I remember fighting. I remember showing Spike the story he'd inspired, marks, and just recently reading that same story to Kadin over an irritating phone connection, listening to him breathe, eat, exist... talking with Scott about nothing at all, for hours... the grassy knoll across from the Little Apple in Manzanita. I really ~knew~ I was pregnant, for the first time, sitting there and trying to eat stolen kippers.

I remember so much, and yet so little. Images slip out of my mind, my grasp, fading even as I recognize their presence and reach uselessly for their swiftly-disappearing forms. Dead.

I'm sitting across from someone now who draws out other fragments. Voice, eyes, technicolor hair... Rocky, downtown, and the flashed image, splitsecond, of a slender, curved cock wrapped in latex and then plunged inside me, people watching idly. Tiny apartment, no real furniture, street kids' pad, and I promised myself I wouldn't live like that.

Not for me. Not like that... bestial. Poor. And again it's just one word that echoes: dead.

--- end cheezy ramblings ---

I'm going with Deborah up to Irene Radford's place to work on details of the website and to help her with her computer. We won't be back until just before we need to go pick up Caleb, who is arriving at the airport around 8:30 tonight.

So soon... and yet it somehow seems so VERY far away. Infuriating. Agonizing.

Listening now to "Eurotrash Girl"... another song Caleb introduced me to, one that makes me all giddy and happy and amused.

...and I'll search the world over
for my angel in black
yeah I'll search the world over
for my eurotrash girl...

Fun.

...on my knees for the seargent
when my passport arrived...

Oddly happy.

Got fresh batteries that seem to have disappeared. No matter, I'll find them sooner or later.

Got ghost-shaped Peeps candy.

Got a pawful of change.

Got a headache and a gutache and this odd feeling that I'm forgetting something.

Oh, and I'm still waiting for an apology from a particular little dove. *grins slightly*

So... what now?

...eurotrash girl
yeah I'll search the world over
for my eurotrash girl...