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.

Wednesday.

I've been noticing the week has grown longer since the couch-surfing has stopped. It's no longer a blur of days and apartments, no longer a haze of couches and futons that I run through like I'm marathoning a flipbook. No going out to dinner every night with someone else.

Suddenly slow.

Suddenly, my time is my own.

The apartment is loud. This is what happens when you move in across the street from one of the most popular bars in the area. I sleep with earplugs in, and it's fine. My mother and I are going to be sewing some heavy, soundproofing curtains in the next few weeks.

Things are strange.

Walking into my apartment feels like I'm walking into a hotel. Temporary. Storage space for my belongings and, oh looks, there's a bed. Score. I always wanted a place to sleep.

I told GV8 the other night, I don't know when it's going to sink in. I don't know when I'm going to believe that I am there. That I am there for at least a year. That it is my own space. That I can take care of myself. That things aren't somehow going to magically change and I'll be back, living with my parents and going to school full-time like I dreamed of doing.

I don't feel safe there. So many people. Bad locks that GV8 will be fixing this weekend. Old building. Thin windows. It feels like the boundary that is supposed to be separating me, my territory, from the rest of the world, is a flimsy thing that can be violated all too easy.

I love my boundaries. I love security. Of having that defined space that no one could possibly enter.

It's not like that here.

It's awkward and open.

I'm not sure what to do about it to make myself feel safe, aside from let GV8 do his security bit. I'm sure he'll do a good job.

It makes me a little panicky, sometimes, to go back to the apartment. Waiting for the time when I will want to go back. When it will be a feeling of relief, and not a feeling of impending doom, or of loneliness. Trapped. Silent and alone.

What do I have to do to accomplish this?

I have some ideas.

Let's ponder the execution of them.

I have not set up internet in the apartment yet. I'm trying to prevent myself from procrastinating from unpacking by having no internet to distract me.

Positives: totally unpacking
Negatives: no blogging, can't check traffic, can't check movies (shouldn't be checking movies anyhow, should be unpacking)

Moving went incredibly smooth. GV8 showed up to my parents' place at 845AM with a trailer and his oversized truck. I already had everything packed, so it was just a matter of letting the garage spew its contents onto the driveway, seeing what there was to take, and packing. Everything fit perfectly into one open trailer, my mother's SUV, GV8's truck, and a few things in my car. We drove the 30 or so miles to my new place and unloaded, done by 1215PM.

Which left GV8 and myself running errands (mostly hardware, buying a fridge, hitting Target for various things), while my mother and two friends unpacked my kitchen.

It's scary. I know this is a normal thing for everyone, and most people end up living alone (right?) at some point, but I never have. I always have that male safety net living beside me.

GV8 and I grabbed some Thai food, walked around a shopping area, did some more work on the place. Electrical and plumbing.

Things are shifting between us again, the dynamic. I'm not sure what it is, where it is going. It's not romantic, it feels like we're sliding apart. Figures.

But I have to run. Work to do. More... eventually.

I don't like posting at night. The day has wound down and I am ready to lounge and get my sleepy-time groove on.

Unfortunately, the office has been rearranged, placing my monitor in direct view of my boss. This makes me uneasy about spending chunks of time pounding at the keyboard during work hours.

Going down to the property management company to sign the lease tomorrow afternoon, pick up my keys, switch over the electricity.
Signed a life insurance policy a few hours ago, something I can borrow against in about three years. Which will be nice.
Also picked up some dental gear. I don't remember if I mentioned it in all the hubbub that has been going on, but since Darkeyes and I split (which caused all the panic/anxiety issues), I've been grinding my teeth so hard that they've been shifting. The stress with GV8 and my father has compounded the problem, so I had to have some rather unattractive nightgear made so I would not be able to continue moving my teeth.

Fun, I know. I'm sitting here with this cherry red retainer in right now, remembering myself in junior high wearing these awful retainers. How awkward.

Again, drawing a blank. I had so much to write about today that I was unable to attack, and now I'm lounging on C's futon while she dozes on her couch, Redwing writing one of his in-progress sci-fi novels... I just want to sleep.

Which is funny. I quit coffee. Yeah, that's right. I who have consumed, at minimum, one cup of coffee almost every day for the last six years, sometimes two or three cups of coffee a day, I have quit.

It's weird. My usual downtime is popping into a coffee shop with a book and reading for a few hours, watching the people walk by, enjoying the weather, the sounds, the smells of a coffee shop.

Now I have to find other ways, other places, to spend my downtime.

It feels like I'm missing a limb. Possibly my right hand.

What do I do with myself, those hours I would spend with a caffienated beverage beside me on some undersized table, surrounded by the same crowd every day? Coffee shop philosophers, smokers, families coming in after church on Sunday mornings.

I need a damn hobby. That's what.

Suggestions?

Tuesday, 1107PM.

Timestamping seems irrelevant since Blogger will go ahead and tag this for me.

Probably should get out of the habit.

Especially since it only kicked in because I was so stressed and losing track of time because I was living hour to hour, not day to day.

Updates... I'm moving on Saturday. I was approved for the apartment I wanted on Monday afternoon. I spent most of this last weekend packing and organizing, so I'm very good to go come Saturday morning.

Living alone.

How strange. I never expected that, really. Yes, I am loner, but I always assumed that I'd either be living with my parents or with my partner, as has been the case my entire life. I hate the idea that if I lose my job, there's no one living with me to back me up on rent and bills until I'm employed again.

It feels foolish.

I hold my safety nets dear.

But here I am, moving into a large apartment on my solo. I already have most of the furniture I need, and the majority of the things I am lacking are going to be given to me by my mother or GV8. GV8 seems to be covering all of the moving expenses as well, so this entire thing is... financially pretty easy. Some of my friends are happily(?) volunteering(?) to help unload, so I'll have a chill enough time of it.

Speaking of GV8... called him yesterday to let him know that I was approved for the apartment and the moving date was still set for Saturday, then asked if he'd want to go clubbing with me after the move, as one of my favorite clubs is that evening. He loves to watch me dance, I love to dance, and I thought it would be fun.

Didn't really think it through.

Going to any scene place tends to invite people we both know. His friends, my friends, acquaintances, one-night stands, etc. Going to that particular club, where I have my small group of male admirers that do not understand/accept my lack of interest, along with the women he'd likely to run into that he has already slept with, along with his need not to feel constrained/cock-blocked... it doesn't work.

He knows it would hurt me, hurt me deeply, if he picked up another woman.

And it would bother him if I picked up another man.

I'm significantly less likely than he is do to so at any scene events because club kids aren't my type.

However, he's equal opportunity for anyone that is hot and interesting.

Which is how we met.

I still remember that night, me with my swiss cheese memory. Seeing him sitting at the club, in one of the side rooms, bobbing his head to the music. Me walking in his general direction, going to swerve around him at the last minute to take my seat and him thinking I was walking over to talk to him and striking up a conversation in his usual confident manner.

Afterwards, after he bent me over some leather piece of furniture, dragged my pants in my ankles and bruised the hell out of me, we stood outside the club, me leaning against my car, wondering if I should offer to take him home with me. I had the Artesia apartment to myself that night, which meant I could finally have some play time.

I let him talk, let him convince me, slowly, and then made the offer.

We didn't have sex that night.

But I showed him that there are 25 year olds that can give amazing head.
And he showed me that my body could squirt numerous times in a row.

I got twenty minutes of sleep before I had to get going for the day's activities. Twenty minutes allowed because he did not want to stop the pleasure, did not want me resting. Wanted to push me.

And I sailed on it.

Who knew that some man I accidentally struck up a conversation with at a club would have such an impact on me? It still boggles my mind.

Anyhow, it was rapidly determined that it would be a horrible idea for the two of us to go to a club together. Which sent me spiraling down into a small pit of depression.

It's easier now, to a degree. I'm certainly not over him, and it continues to feel as though I've got a gaping, gasping chest wound, but I am reaching that point where life is continuing.

An apartment to myself. A place where no one is telling me I can't decorate in a certain way. The past two men I've lived with have always told me no, no I can't have particular decorations up. They aren't kosher, they aren't normal, and we need to compromise.

Of course, that compromise is that they have average ideas of decoration that average people like and don't rock the average social boat, damn it.

A place of my own. A place where no one is checking up on me, where I don't have to pad in quietly after a club, where I can bring whoever I want home with me, for whatever purpose, and eject them when I'm done with them. Guests. As many guests as I can fit. Furniture arranged how I want it. No one touching my food. No parties that continue until 6 or 7AM, where I end up having to scrub vomit out of the carpet.

My life, suddenly.

26 and single. 26 and a decided lack of interest. 26 and damaged. 26 and finally living.

GV8 said to me that, if I do the math, the first half of my life was the most boring. Which is true. 13 years of youth, boring. I consider my life fairly blah until I hit 16, 17. Then things changed.

It's odd to look at it that way. When I hit 34, the first half of my life will still have been the most boring. Talk about building up.

... ...

On the home front, my father was laid off yesterday. We're thinking that this is mostly a good thing. He seems happy about it as well. He's more stable, though not 100% yet. My mother took him to a psychiatrist to figure out what could stabilize him out more fully, so I'll have to check in with her on those results.

He called me as I was writing this post.

I haven't been talking to him lately, if I don't have to. I can't deal with his aggression at the moment. It's too much. It breaks me down. He breaks me down. So he called because we haven't talked lately and he let me know that he was speaking at a convention soon in front of a few thousand people and wanted to know if I would attend and finally see his project in motion. We'll see if I go. Depends on scheduling more than anything. Wanted to see how the car was treating me.

Really, he wanted to connect. I could feel that there was more he wanted to say, but I did not prompt it. I did not want to deal with it. I know it's hard on him that I'm moving out, that I'm slowing my school down so much just because I can no longer share space with him.

He probably feels incredibly guilty about it.

But he'll never admit that, at least to me.

He'll just keep trying to make offers and deals with me. Offering these things I want so badly that I cannot take from him, that will just cause even more of an internal rift in me regarding whether or not I'm making the right decision by moving out instead of continuing school like I planned.

I wonder if he'll try anything before I move. A call, a dream-come-true offer. Chance of a lifetime.

I've noticed more and more, when watching movies, you know how things are going to end, how they have to end.

That's not what causes the tension.

The tension is caused by the wonder of what is going to be lost, willingly or unwillingly. The price the characters will pay, that you as an emotionally involved audience will pay, for the ending you so desire.