When I was little, my grandma had one of these plastic yarn decorations on her TV that looked like a bunch of Tetris blocks randomly strewn about. I'm not sure how long it was on her TV before I realized the green yarn blocks were actually spelling Jesus, but after that day, I could never not see it.
That's how I feel about life these days. Perhaps it's the increasing dread of mortality. Perhaps it's the constant hours of feeling alone to the point where I just want to be left alone. The tin sword. Peeking behind the Wizard's curtain. I'm unable to focus on much more than the negative aspects of my life, in spite of making attempts to focus on only the awesome things. Even going so far as to ask other people who's overbearing negativity is contagious to tell me something awesome that happened to them. No matter how fucking tiny. The toilet seat was down and warm. Any moment of joy possible. Tell me.
Not sure it's working.
I'm sitting in my room. Drinking coffee spiked with a healthy dose of cannabis oil. Before the coffee, I ate a brownie I made with the cannabis oil. I'm listening to music and smoking a bowl of cannabis, some of which I used to make the oil.
By the time it all kicks in, all I'll be able to hear is a pleasant ringing in my ears. The sound of the rockets blasting me back to Jupiter where I can remind myself that I'm a speck of lint on a speck of dust in a room bigger than anyone could possible imagine.
I'm thinking about Elbows. Natch. She texted me this morning while I was thinking about her. My phone lit up with an incoming photo message. I knew it was from her. She's got the Young Squire. It was a picture of him climbing up her stairs.
We texted back and forth for a little bit. Lamenting. Complaining. About the same things. The pains in our sides. The longing in our heart. The loneliness.
I got the impression that she's going to stop by after she drops the Young Squire off at his grandparent's house for a late Christmas. Admittedly, I want nothing more than for her to stop by. And stay. And make me miserable with the longing of her while we clean up the kitchen disaster Glassy made two days ago and has been festering in the sink ever since. It seems fucking stupid to me that I find joy in imagining doing dishes with Elbows. Enough to chuckle.
My oily lips slip along the end of the bowl I'm smoking and I take another drag. I remind myself again that I shouldn't be in love with her. It's an impossible scenario. I exhale and take another sip of my coffee. I imagine all of the brilliant Hollywood ways this could go, if she walks through that door in twenty five minutes.