We Are All Going
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I have lost my faith.

“Me: Is ‘Nietzschean’ a word?
Leah: I don’t know, but ‘miserable’ is.”

I used to be conflicted before about my pacifism — I scringe to think about eating animals now but in reaction to genocide, racism, sexism I was unsure. Typical white privilege, I suppose.

But now when I hear myself breaking his nose and the hot blood gushing and painting his face Guilty, I am nothing but Satisfaction.

Notes

The aches of whiplash — if only my neck hurt instead of my heart!

I wish I could take it back, that I didn’t know what it was like to sleep through a night next to someone else, how to grow during the night, respirate, instead of simply recharging.

it hurts it hurts it hurts

I have trouble sleeping. I can take dusty pills to fall asleep but sleep is a pause and then I wake up before my roommates or the sun and I stuff my sheets between my legs and I lie in the dark and think and ache of you.

Just stop, fucking stop! Stop fucking intellectualizing my feelings and turning them into some fucking lofty abstraction so it hurts less. I am fucking tangible and so are my feelings — my heart hurts.

I hate you you’re so stupid we had something small and gentle and you killed it.

My hands are sweaty, I say.

So are mine, he says.

J’ai peur

Kyle is dating Lucie the cute French exchange girl. Over Sunrise coffee at Java Joes this morning, he tries to explain the French verb quiffer. It is untranslatable, has no real meaning, and the best way he can describe it is to compare it to I’m digging this coffee right now.

And now is one of those moments when I realize my terror. I am completely unprepared for France, I don’t know any slang and can barely struggle along orally and the only way I can comfort myself is by repeating

sans doute sans doute sans doute

Slow Fade

So Number 5 has been another guy-who-seems-cool-and-likes-my-music-which-leads-to-a-hookup-and-then-they-stop-answering-my-texts

and I am trying not to be mad and Hannah the Psychology/Biology double major is telling me that I shouldn’t be mad because I am perpetuating this hurtful self-fulfilling prophecy of protecting myself by expecting men to dine and ditch and then being affirmed when they do

but if I am not thinking about how mad I am then I am trying to figure out what greasy, slippery part of myself repels all romantic affection, that when they touch me they are implicit in something invisible to the Platonic, something empty and dusty and boring that dries the sweat from nervous hands and germinates a cruel Disinterest.

I should have written this in French if I could shrug off the strict formalism. The French tongue has two verbs for knowing: connaître, to know in a technical sense; and savoir, to know, deeply. There is something beautiful in that but I am too tired to describe it.

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