Anger is still running high, something unusual for me. I blame my body for this, with its female hormone fluctuations, and its need of at least eight hours of sleep a night which annoys me because I don't want to be sleeping that much, and I certainly wouldn't if I had any say in the matter.

I found myself pining for SFPlayboy and his roughness, his unwillingness to take any of my crap, his complete ease at restraining me, at throwing me around, his cocky attitude and so very masculine presence.

I wanted that today. I wanted a rough rape scene to calm me down, something to get this anger out of my head, out of my body. If I had time, I would run. I would put on my sneakers and exhaust myself, exhaust my body.

But I don't. Something I have very little of is time. School has been in session for three weeks now, and my friends continue to call, text, and email. I feel like I'm on a leash.

A very short one.

And I want to go play.

Friday, GV8 and I are supposed to go out. Or rather, stay in, exhaust ourselves, go get some food and rest for a short while, and then exhaust ourselves again.

But I don't want to. I don't want to see him. I don't want to see anyone. I'm on edge and it's taking too much effort to keep myself in control, which is making me more, so much more, angry because I'm resenting the people around me, people I don't even know, because I'm having to play nice.

I don't want to see him and have to do the same, and hope that my irritation does not bleed through, that my control is good enough, which I doubt it will be. It will taint it.

Also creeps in is this growing realization that he isn't something I want long-term. Well, as a relationship. Lover, yes. Relationship... I think after being burned by him, my trust in him, the security I found in his presence, is damaged. And that's not something that easily comes back for me. I'm not sure if it ever has, in the past.

But... I could always be wrong. My memory isn't quite the best.

Work has been difficult the last few days, trying to keep it under control. My boss is incredibly prone to moodswings, but since he's the owner's son, I just get to take it. This week has been a downswing. You can imagine how much this has added to my mood.

My coworkers know me as this bright, silly, happy, upbeat kinda girl. It's a show I've been putting on for the last two years because it's easier. Because I don't have my usual position of power, which aggravates me, so I feel powerless and I cannot let my actual personality out because it would be too dominant and throw the social balance the office has, not to mention not suit my position at all.

Going from being what was, essentially, the most influential regional manager in one company, where I ended up having to train my own, national-level, manager, as well as his underlings, running the busiest location we had, to working with and engineering teams of doctors, nurses, and pharmacists all over the country, to this... it's painful.

I'm not used to this. I'm not used to being in such a low spot on the totem pole, to having no power, no credit, being the whipping boy for a near bipolar boss, one that will never get reprimanded for his behavior and lack of management skills because he's part of the family.

When he shouted across the office today to let me know I had done something wrong, something so inconsequential, something that didn't even need to be mentioned because it did not matter in any way, shape, or form, it was because he needed to scold. It had no point other than emotional satisfaction for him.

So, what did I do?

Put on my best beta-bitch sappy smile, cracked a silly, self-depreciating joke, and went about my business like I wasn't imagining what would happen to him if his daddy wasn't the big boss.

That happened repeatedly today.

Smile, duck your head, go about your business.

Nothing to do about it, save find another job.

Speaking of, I should probably be looking into that right now.

Oobi Doobi Magic Crap

Anti-socialness spurred by exhaustion, with the depression shaken and stirred in.

I've hit this frustrated spot.

I'm trying to write. I'm trying to convey these moments that I enjoy, these ideas, these feelings, and it feels like it's just not working. That people aren't getting it.

And I know it's up to the interpretation of the reader, and I shouldn't get so frustrated by it, that my words are being mis-read, misunderstood, mistaken, but it makes me not want to write because I know whatever I'm going to put out there, 99% of people are not going to get it.

And of that 99%, 11% are going to write to me to tell me how much they get it and how wonderful it is and how close we are in spirit and how we should meet and how we should date and they don't feel so alone anymore and I'm sitting there, staring at the screen going "Oh holy fuck, get off me."

Not exactly friendly.

But, it's so frustrating. I thought words were supposed to be my "thing". That's what everyone has said for so long. Well, what good is it if I can't convey basic feelings? What good is it if I speak or write and no one understands it?

And I know I'm writing for me, this journal is for me, and if people enjoy it, I think that's great because I like to feel not quite so alone and unread, and some of the people that read my stuff, here and elsewhere, are really freaking cool.

But I feel betrayed by myself and by them when I hear these interpretations of my behavior or my thoughts that are so very, very wrong. Is that how you see me?

I used to be so fascinated by how people saw me. Not because I wanted to have people tell me how great I was (or how not-great), but because I think different views are fascinating and part of knowing yourself is knowing how you present yourself. And I'm all about self-knowledge.

For instance, I had no idea until last year that the reason why so many people keep their distance from me at clubs is because they find me intimidating and aloof, which I still don't see, but I've heard it enough, especially after I make friends with someone there, that I'm starting to accept it.

It didn't make me change my behavior, mind you. But I became aware of it.

(insert "the more you know" rainbow here)

This whole thing is making me not want to write, not want to talk, not want to email, because I just can't handle being misunderstood right now and I have no idea why it is bothering me so much, aside from the idea that if I can't communicate something with words, then I'm a failure and I should even bother writing. I should just keep my stories and experiences bottled up in me because if I ever bother to write them all down, I'll end up having to interact with people like that fratboy from the other night, at Denny's, when I was trying to write.

I don't want to deal with that. Closedminded people drive me up the wall, and people who don't realize that they're viewing everything through their own filter of their experiences, that lack of awareness on their part... I can't deal with it right now. I'm too tired, I'm too stressed.

And I caught myself doing the filter viewing last week. I was reading this amazing blog, thinking to myself, "Wow, we're so similiar, I could really understand this guy." And then I realized, no, no we're not. I'm reading his stuff through my own eyes and seeing what I want to see and drawing my own conclusions and I need to cut that out right now because it's beyond creepy and annoying.

So, yes. I've withdrawn into my cave and I will come out and post and go to work and flirt with that tattooed rockabilly hottie in my classes, but I've really got to ratchet things down until I get off of my bitchy anti-social podium because I almost, almost, almost went into full-on bitch mode with this guy in my class tonight because I just wanted a verbal sparring partner and I needed that mental smack around to release the aggression that is building inside me, and he had no idea what was going on and I had to cool off very fast.

I slip when I'm tired.

Tomorrow, class.
Thursday, C+friends.
Friday, GV8.
Saturday, hair-dye, arms waxed, pedicure(?), dad's birthday dinner, friend's birthday party, write a paper, read a book for class, read a play for the other class, write a paper for that class on the play.
Sunday, wedding, more reading, more writing for school, maybe tv-marathon with my friend.

Maybe I'll fit sleep in there somewhere so I don't turn into a raging unstable hosebeast.

Probably not.

At least I'm not going into the office at 7AM tomorrow like I did today. I'd like to avoid ever doing that again if at all possible.

/whine

Depression has its teeth in the back of my neck, carrying me like a kitten.

I'll rouse myself eventually, but for now I think I'll just hang here.

Doesn't hurt me...

I've been without words the last few days, forcing myself to write.

It's not over yet.

Skipping over headstones in heels, flared skirt, red button-up, black hair braided to one side, keeping it off the back of my neck, the heat, the sweat on my back, carrying the coffin, a being a female pall-bearer is somehow appropriate for my life. A whimper escapes my uncles lips from where he sits in his wheelchair, looking at pictures propped up on the casket, their wedding day when he still had use of his body, when he was still a complete man. Red carnations, the family flower, my father left behind by both his parents and now his sister, cut off from his past, from his family, his base.

In the car, me his companion, he tells me of his days at the brink, riding the edge in bars and clubs in Hollywood, the jail time, the arrests, the fights, the drugs, the alcohol, and how desire for my mother made him turn his life into something different.

I tell him that's not allowed. It's too Hollywood. Didn't he know that he had to become dissatisfied with the idyllic existence she provided and take off after a few months to a year, back to his wild, alpha male ways?

I speak at the funeral, for once my own words.

I am the only speaker who does not cry.

It makes me feel like a fake. Everyone else breaks down, and here I am, detached and watching, speaking only because my father asked me to. My sister speaks after me and becomes so very emotional we cannot understand her words through her tears until my mother comes up and holds her hand.

I came close to crying when my mother broke down. I felt the tears building and knew that if I did choose to allow one or two of them to escape, people would assume I was crying for the loss of my aunt, not realizing that I feel not her loss, but the anguish of others, that I would be crying for the pain that my family feels that somehow escapes me on a direct level, but through them comes back to me.

I do not wish them to hurt.

I stay with my father when he is left alone. I gather and refine the edges to ease the organization for my mother.

Sweat rolls down my back.

Small talk, introductions, I fix the unsnapped suspenders on my great uncle.

My back and shoulders are covered in bite-marks from GV8, from the previous night and earlier that morning. Whenever anyone pats my shoulder or back, I hide my wince. I end up looking like a leopard whenever he is done with me.

I watch. I look for ways to help and monitor movement. I sit in the pew with my family (mother-father-sister-sister's boyfriend-me), ankles crossed, and when we pray, I stare forward.

Red carnations, white roses.

My grandfather's obsession with flowers, vegetables, fruits, anything green and growing, stemming from a childhood spent in South Dakota, where very few things grow.

Red carnations, the gifts to my grandmother, of their perfect, devoted love.

We place them on the casket, we toss rose petals and my mother remarks how the wind always picks up whenever this happens, which is true, but I take no meaning from it.

Scattering, a quick flick of the wrist, I stand on my grandmother's grave.

It has been almost two years since she passed, and I think of the days, the hospital visits, the nights spent in the ICU, reading books and talking in whispers, placing the moistened pick sponges on her lips because she could not take in fluids. And now her body is rotting in the earth.

It makes me hope that her idea of heaven is real, that her god exists for her.

Tonight will be spent cleaning and organizing. I need to exercise some control.

I'll think of lips against my neck, the slight touch of someone's breath upon my skin, and warm hands. I will think of the holes we dig and how that simple action can be such an isolator, and of the man that does not exist, the companionship I will seek with my typical naive hope, and the fear that maybe, one day, I'll realize that I am, indeed, alone, and settle for a false relationship with someone that does not suit, but at least enables me to pretend.

This is a good home...

Funeral is tomorrow. 11AM.

Death is something I have not been exposed to much. Yes, all of my grandparents are dead.

Grandfather, mother's side, lung cancer and liver failure due to a life of excess.
Grandfather, father's side, multiple strokes and diabetes.
Grandmother, mother's side, mental deterioration until the body broke down.
Grandmother, father's side, Emphysema.

I was... 5 years old, fourteen years old, twenty years old, twenty four years old.

Spaced out deaths.

Family friends have died, yes. Some of them that I have known my entire life.

And I am unfazed.

I am the nominated eulogy reader. I am the one who does not cry at funerals, even when everyone around me is breaking down. My mother lets people know that if they cannot complete what they have written about the deceased, I will be perfectly able to get through it.

I stand at the podium, at the altar, wherever we are conducting the service, and read aloud the words of others.

I wonder if I don't realize the immensity of it.

Or if I'm blocking it out, like I have trained myself to do with so many other emotions. It's a lifetime of training, that pushing away.

The pain hits you, you nod at it, and shove it into a closet until you have time to examine it and lick your wounds.

My aunt... I am more concerned about those around us, those she left behind, than her death. Her funeral, the arrangements, the constant phone calls, watching my mother navigate the house, phone pressed to her ear, address book nearby, calling, calling, calling. Notifications, details, logistics.

I feel nothing for the loss.

I ache for my father, I ache that I cannot stop this pain, that I cannot take this blow for him. My skull pounds in the frustration of knowing one is impotent.

The best I can directly do is touch, hug, and make phone calls.

The best I can indirectly do is shadow my mother, make sure she is taken care of, make sure that she is not upset, make sure that she is not stressed and overwhelmed.

By knowing that I do this, my father is able to retreat in his grief and focus on himself, not worrying about his wife.

It seems like such a small thing to do, but it is all I can.

When he called me, the next day, I was at work. From his tone, I stepped out of the office. When he asked me to sit down, I did so on the edge of the nearby wall. I thought something horrible had happened, something that would make me collapse. Worry about my mother choking me.

And then he said that his sister had killed herself.

Such relief.

How sad, how true.

I was relieved.

He talked to me, told me about his guilt in not calling me right away, told me his guilt in wishing he didn't feel like he had to tell me, that he was going to ruin my weekend with this knowledge.

He talked. I listened.

He talked about how upset he was, in the brief words that he uses, barest acknowledgements of suffering, but for him that is merely a sign of how incredibly broken he was inside.

He told me how my mother and sister had freaked out. How upset they were. That they're unable to control their emotions, he says, like we are. That we put our heads down and go.

That's one of the only times he's truly admitted how alike we are in more than our work ethic or driving skills. That inside, we are too much alike.

I don't know how to comfort without touch.

I don't know what to say or what to do.

Death is... foreign. I've never mourned due to death, so to try to relate to someone who is experiencing that loss, to know the social patterns I must engage in... it's a blank wall.

I crawl around it, looking for clues, but I do not know what to do with someone mired in grief.

I kept quiet and listened, then planned my workload so I could leave the office early and be there for my mother.

That's all I can do.

Sometimes I'm weak.

Weaker than I should be, anyway.

My clubbing friend, someone who I really need to think up a pseudonym for... yeah.

Texts me nearly every day.
Wants to spend more time together.
For our birthdays, right next to each other in October, he wants to go on a daytrip, or maybe a weekend vacation, just the two of us.

This man, I do like him. I like spending time with him, like talking with him. I think he's good people, and he holds a good, balanced conversation, which is something I appreciate. My willingness to listen usually causes most conversations to be onesided, so it's rare to find someone who is willing to listen back.

He's a fixture in the scene. Being with him, rather, being seen with him, with our obvious comfort-level, does good things for me, socially. Things that I do not usually do for myself, as I would rather be on the dance floor than socializing, would rather be cooling off in a corner by myself outside than huddling together, talking, smoking cigarettes.

And he can guest-list me. Not a necessary thing, but something I enjoy, being able to walk into a club... park my own car, wave my way past the bouncers, and slide past the doorman. It's nice. It saves hassle. It looks good.

I keep to myself, for the most part. A select few, I socialize with.

And if you're not on the dancefloor, you're worthless.

And even if you are, it's a high likelihood that I don't even like the way you move.

I'm an elitist, I know. It's been commented on time and time again.

But I like to think it's earned.

Back to him, though, my club-friend, back to him and my weakness.

I got off work yesterday, started that near 50-mile commute to campus. Called my mother, called C, called C's lover.

My mother was down, dealing with the funeral arrangements, worrying about my father.
C's basically getting evicted in three months, through absolutely no fault of her own, rather mismanagement by the property owner, and is undergoing significant health problems that I will not talk about here.
C's lover is allowing himself to get stuck in a crappy situation and he's withdrawing further and further from the world, from me, which is unusual because we're close.

It got to me.

It all got to me.

And the freeway was not free enough to let me zen. Stop-and-go traffic frustrates me, and the heat we've been experiencing means I have to run the A/C to prevent myself from sweating in a metal box on wheels.

Windows up, crawling along, smoke in the air.

I wanted to be blasting down the freeway at 90 miles an hour, windows down, music filling the space around me.

So I called him.

I knew I should not.

I know what this does. I know what it would do.

But I didn't stop myself.

When a man like him is interested, when a man like him sees a woman upset, he wants to protect. Disclosure, revealing of vunerability, just makes him more attached and I knew it. I knew it so quickly once I started talking to him.

But I did not want to be stuck in traffic, stuck in a mood.

So I called. I called and told him how upset I was, about everything that was going on.

Brainless and selfish.

He just ends up wanting me more.

And this is after I have told him repeatedly, directly, that I'm not interested. That I will not be interested. That I'm not attracted to him.

The latter actually isn't 100% true. He is an experienced dom, and I value both experience and sexual domination. But I'll never let him know that.

He's enrapt with me because we have so many similiarities. He's fascinated because I'm not like the other girls at the clubs. He's intimidated and desirous because he knows that I'm possibly the only person he's ever met that is more perverted and kinky than he is, or at least the only one open about it. My vunerability, my honesty, brings out his masculinity. We have incredibly similiar backgrounds, similiar histories. We've both accepted that we're people who are more likely to be alone for the rest of our lives than find another that suits us. Except now he's angling for me.

I don't want to lose his friendship.

I don't want this to turn awkward.

I don't want this to blow up in my face.

I don't want him to nice-guy me because he's better than that and I know he is.

I wish I wasn't so concerned about his feelings. I wish I did not feel guilty when he told me that if he couldn't guest-list me for a special event, he'd pay for my cover.

I don't like it when people buy me things.

It makes me uncomfortable. Especially when it's a male who has interest in me that I don't return.

Even with GV8, I find him buying me things makes me uncomfortable. We went shopping on Melrose, possibly our first or second date, and I saw this amazing coat that I had to try on but had no intention of buying. It was... spectacular. I walked by the window and jawdropped because it was so perfect.

He saw this and bought it for me. $400. This was after buying me a pair of $120 boots. I was thrilled, but at the same time... disconcerted.

He tells me that I need to get used to him buying me things. That when he feels like buying something for someone he does, and not to argue. It took repeated dinners and other dates for me to stop reaching for my wallet whenever it came time to pay, and it did seem to slightly annoy him that I would do this.

I don't find sleeping with someone at all equating to them owing me something. The whole sugardaddy set-up, I can't do. It feels wrong to have a man pay for anything for me simply because I'm sleeping with him, especially because I'd be sleeping with him whether or not he spent money on me.

I've done nothing to earn it. Sex isn't work. Sex isn't uncomfortable.

When I sleep with someone, I expect honesty and communication. I expect to be treated as a good friend or a lover, depending on our social situation. I expect social precedence in most cases, over their average friends, though never over their work or close friends or family. I expect social physical contact and some sort of acknowledgement of our closeness.

But not items. Not money.

I need to figure out how I want to handle this thing with my clubbing friend. Directly telling him my lack of interest hasn't worked. I'm going to see him Sunday at the club, so I'll probably have to corner him and let him know my concerns.

Better to nip it now than to put it off due to a cowardly need to avoid minor discomfort.

... ... ...
Update:

Thinking on the money "thing", I wonder if some women do get into such arrangement because it makes being "easy" and engaging in sexually-"adventurous" behaviors... excusable. That those base desires that we all experience, and women are taught are masculine and undesirable in women, can be swept under the rug because one is being paid to do act in that manner.

I'm quite sure this correct isn't even a majority of those of us who get into these relationships, but I wonder for how many it might be.

I mean, it's one way of working around the sexual standards reining in women.

Money makes a would-be slut into a successful whore.

And she's even thinking towards her future.

Or I could be totally wrong.

Walking by my sister's room, her door open, her boyfriend putting her in a choke-hold and instructing her on how to get out of it...

I realized that my sister is dating guy who spent a chunk of high school in juvie, and my primary partner is an ex-lifer.

Ah, we're winners, yes we are.

...and we're going for number, what? Four?

Sitting outside, 130PM, sky lit yellow, pavement beneath my feet a sickly cast.

Half a sandwich, a book, and a cell phone in front of me. Hands clasped in front of my face, thumbs against my lips, internal stare. The body knows before the brain, the muscles on the back of my neck sounding an alarm of iron bars, the tension in my jaw telling of how I grind my teeth during times of exhaustion, slouching forward, more pale than usual, hair pulled back.

725AM - Phone goes off
730AM - Out the door
735AM - Getting coffee
750AM - Walking into the office
1030AM - Phone call for funeral scheduling
120PM - Leave the office
125PM - On the phone with my father
135PM - Ordering food
155PM - Return to office
500PM - Leave office
505PM - Call C
645PM - Finish commute to campus
700PM - Class begins
800PM - Break, another phone call
815PM - Back to class
1000PM - Class ends
1030PM - Finish commute to home
1040PM - Laundry while eating left-overs
1100PM - Shower
1115PM - Evaluate stress level versus exhaustion level, write if stress is higher than exhaustion, if exhaustion is higher, watch a movie.
1130PM - Move laundry into dryer
1135PM - Crawl into bed and stare at the sliver of light between the window frame and the curtain.
1200AM - Sleep
630AM - Rise and repeat

... ... ... ...

I had a moment of untangling.

Yes, I sit and think too much.

I was worrying that, if GV8 did not have the history he does, that I would not find him attractive. That I was more attracted to the experiences than the man. That I was being overly irrational in my desire for him, basing it on things that happened as opposed to who he is now.

But then, after stewing, I realized that the things that he did... those were lifetime choices, a lifestyle he lived for a couple of decades. That's not something you get thrown into, it's something you choose, something he seemed to be ridiculously successful at and enjoyed. His personality made those experiences, caused him to make the choices he did, not the reverse.

Yes, I do find his history insanely attractive.

But because it shows me who he is, because it shows me his measure. It shows me how willing he is to get the job done, how focused on survival he is, and how intelligent he is to have done what he did for so long before getting caught.

Those are things I value when it comes to my partners. Not parenting skills, not moral upbringing, not spirituality, not looks, not humor. I need strength, I need survival and intelligence, I need aggression and a sexual understanding that runs deep due to experience.

Yes, if I found out that he was poor at his lifestyle, if his performance was subpar, it would cause me to view him as less desirable because we find success desirable. We find good performance desirable.

No one wants to be with a failure.

He is... perfect, really. For the set up. Reformed, but still has that edge, still has that ability to shift into that mindset, and the years and years behind him backing him with self-knowledge.

Lovely.

Oh, and I had an interesting (for me) realization last night.

It came to me as I was falling asleep, didn't remember until just a few minutes ago.

The Bassist... he's not my usual type. He's not alpha, he's not beta, he's just off on his own. Physically, he's trim, an inch or two shorter than me, and blonde. I tend to prefer a few inches taller than me, stocky, and dark-haired. When I showed a picture of him to C, she was shocked (and amused) that I would find him attractive.

And I realized... I do find him attractive. Just not sexually.

The idea of him naked, of sex with him... it just... no. Not at all. Seems odd. I can't even imagine it, or become aroused at the thought of it.

It's not a turn off, it's just there's nothing there.

I'm attracted to him on a non-sexual level. On a novelty level, on a respect level. On a "ooooh, shiny!" level. He's healthy and innocent, in his own way. He's confident, creative, and so very talented. He dresses well, he presents himself well, and his humor is wonderful. His band is amazing to experience, his writing is lovely. He's great to hang with and I'm absolutely fascinated with him.

But I don't want him on that base level.

Like I do with Wolfboy, who the mere sight of sends my body going one hundred miles an hour because I want him so very badly.

It does amuse/worry me that I may be starting to turn into those men that cause me such concern, the ones that go after innocence in their partners as a sign of redemption, those who hide their true natures from their mates for knowing the depth of the chasm that would cause between them.

But as this has never happened before, and is unlikely to happen again, I will not let it concern me overmuch.

So there you go, kids. Back into the Mystery Machine with you.

Strange morning.

Last night, I had trouble getting to sleep.

I suppose it's a combination of things.

I went to a platonic male friend's place last night, one of the places that I couchsurf at during the week. We marathon TV shows, occasionally watch movies, eat a little too much sushi, and go grocery shopping. He's a cool guy, one of those quiet types that you wouldn't think much of upon meeting, but as things slip through his lips, those bits of dry humor and intelligence, you realize there's more there.

So, last night, we were watching a couple of episodes of season two of True Blood. As usual, my head was on his left thigh, standard position, with variations of if his arm is across my waist or not.

But he started rubbing my neck, unasked for.

And then, when I shifted to my stomach, he put his head in the curve of my lower back.

Now this, this for me is normal. If I have a platonic male friend, chances are that I've established my lack of interest in them through actions and words, and we reach a good balance where I am freely able to sit on them, crawl on them, cuddle with them, hug them, massage them, and nothing is thought of it.

But this one, this one I've yet to reach that level with because he's so reserved. Our physical contact is, at maximum, a quick hug hello and my head on this thigh, closer to his knee than his crotch.

So this touch, this touch goes out of our pattern. Surprisingly so. I never thought we'd reach that level.

And, because of that, I have not done my usual setting of walls. Of talking about my partners and my sex life and the men I date. He hears none of that. Much like with my Long Beach group, I keep myself as sexless as I can with this one.

I'd like to think he's getting more comfortable with me. I hope he is.

But with the recent trend of my platonic male friends starting to point in my direction with romantic/sexual interest, I worry. This would be the third in the last month.

I hate how this happens. I hate that this is happening. I used to be so good at managing my male friends, at letting them know that if I had wanted them, I would have taken them already. I don't wait. If I see that my interest is returned, I act.

I don't want this to get awkward. I don't want him to be doing this. I hate how my concert buddy is starting to get me little presents and wants to cook me a nice dinner, and how much I hope I reading him wrong. I hate how I have to constantly remind my clubbing friend, someone I like very much, that I am not interested in him and he needs to stop making sexual references in my direction.

So I crawled into my sleeping bag last night, on my marathoning-buddy's living room floor, and shifted, rolled, turned, trying to get comfortable, trying to do my usual cure-all for sleeplessness- daydreaming. It did not work.

Finally I slid into sleep.

My phone woke me early. I dressed quickly in his living room, clothes moving over skin, and left. Elevator in his building unhurried, and then out the front door, to the street filled with clouds and smoke from the fires, the sunlight this odd peachy-orange, turning everything slightly yellow.

I picked up coffee, noting the male in line behind me, a beautifully tattooed specimen of manhood. Out, across the parking lot, I walked, walking around cars with their bad drivers, feeling the wind that reaches out from the nearby beach.

I had Royksopp's The Understanding in my player, a compromise from last night as I discovered I had managed to hide The Church's Life Before Starfish from myself.

Track #10: Someone Like Me.

Remembering months ago, I was listening to this song, to this CD, being sent by work to the local college to pick up some Chinese, being rammed in an intersection on my way to class, on the chiropractor appointments, on the Rollins books, on meeting GV8, this was what I listened to.

No signifigance.

Just a division of time.