He's in my brain.

Even though our contact has been fairly limited, I'm falling more in love with him.

He's supposed to come over in the next day or so to finish the last few repairs, and I'm torn between asking him to come sooner because I want to see him, asking him to come sooner because SFPlayboy is coming down this weekend to visit and I can't stand, absolutely cannot stand, having another man touch me in any way for a couple of days after I've seen GV8, or asking him to come later so I have space between the last time I saw him and when I will see him next.

It was so hard when we went our separate ways on Saturday. I was depressed for hours afterwards, trying to be cheerful and social at my sister's 21st birthday party and failing until much later on in the evening.

Sunday, Sunday I tried to distract myself. I purchased a sort of life insurance policy that allows me to draw from it in three years, so they sent over a medical examiner to do a quick physical. Low end of normal blood pressure, within healthy BMI, no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, no coffee. Easy.

Drove out to the westside to grab lunch with two of my friends, one of which I've mentioned before works for a local dungeon. Caught up with them, ran some errands for the apartment... 5PM hit and I was done for the day. The sky went from light and raining to dark and raining from the time I entered Home Depot to have some keys cut to the time I left.

I just didn't want to be out. Didn't want to be shopping for the apartment, didn't want to be working on anything.

So I went home.

Drove under the rain-darkened sky until I pulled up behind the apartment, in my $40 a month parking space that is so very worth it. Unloaded my car in multiple trips, tracking a weird gray/brown asphalt gravel/dirt mix into the hallway, wiping my feet on the carpeted stairs just outside of the parking area. Dragged my new canopy bed away from the wall, fit my new waterproof (necessary for my squirting tendencies) mattress pad to the bed, the black stripey bedskirt over the box spring, shoved the bed back, put away clothes using the canopy frame to hold my hangers, one light to the side of the fireplace illuminated the room enough for my needs.

And then the books. Hours of unpacking books, The Heathers playing in the background. Christian Slater does it for me every time.

Unrolling carpets, putting away tools, sorting the kinds of books and where I want them, realizing that the Great Book Purge of '08 that knocked me back a few hundred to near one thousand books really freed up shelf space.

I stepped into the shower around 9PM, having switched in Evolution for The Heathers, making me wish I had bought the Aliens boxed set I saw at the store a few days ago.

The building is old. Not east coast old, but 1920s old. Yellow tile surrounds the tub, the tub which is so nice and deep and begging to be used for a bubble bath one day soon. Piling my hair in a soapy slick mess on top of my head, running my not-so-environmentally friendly exfoliating pad over my body, shining skin, rubbing raw, hot water stroking my back, urging me to sit down, urging me to relax, stop unpacking, and give into the pleasure of a perfect temperature, perfect pressure shower.

It's hard to imagine that it hasn't quite been a month since everything happened with my family, with my father.

It's hard to remember that on the 18th of last month, I was working, I had given my one-month notice the day before while on the road with my boss, visiting some customers down in San Diego.

It's hard to think that exactly one month and one week ago, a few hours further in the day, my father would start to unravel. And a week forward from that, and a few days, things would explode in such a way that my previous existence would look relatively easy, aside from a few spots.

Relatively easy, relatively easily discarded.

Jumped the track, like a child playing with a wooden train set, knocking the carved track to another place, no logic, no sense other than what a child's whim deems the way the train should travel.

At least for the moment.

Until they knock the train over as well.

The twenty-first is when things started. Three days from now.

I wonder if I will suddenly wake up from a nap, back in my old room in Temple City, CA. Four or five years old, laying under the soothing air conditioner that created such a strong sense of peace that lasts to this day whenever I am by an old wall unit chugging away. Four or five, blonde hair, blue eyes, my wicked Mona Lisa smile, confidently running into obstacles, adoring and fearful of my godlike father, devoted to my mother. Purple and white unicorn bedspread, matching curtains. Collection of My Little Ponies that would mature into Breyer Horses when I hit eight or nine.

Wake up, my four or five year old self, and know, suddenly, how things will unfold.

Know my life, know the way relationships will alter, how men will feature, and everything I could do differently.

Five seconds later, wiped from memory.

Back to childhood.