I am kind of a slut, and I say that in the most self-loving way possible. But yeah, I am exceptionally promiscuous and it doesn’t bother me that I am because I enjoy it, but it means I find monogamy exceptionally difficult, like to the point where I will avoid alcohol and people I’m attracted to and wear lipstick and use any means to make intimate contact more difficult for me.
I wanna fuck.
All of you.
At the same time.
It’s hard being here.
Alcohol and I are not friends.
My shoulders are stinging with sun.
I miss him. God, how I miss him.
I find it challenging to be around beautiful people whom I cannot touch.
He is not here and I may not have them.
I roll the ring on my finger in reminder.
I’m his. His.
I wonder how many times I will have to repeat this mistake before I finally remember to remember that I am happiest in my own company, or that of one other.
The worst loneliness is the one you experience surrounded by hundreds of people.
Like this if you’ll be at Hillside this weekend, I’ll keep my eyes out!
We were at a chip truck. Your father was there, and you had a son. We weren’t together, but everyone had an inkling we had a connection and they were happy for us. You stood behind me, our hands laced together across my stomach.
It was hillside and we were at the beach, but on a tropical island. I was gleeful, running in the shallows of the water and then diving under deep. I was happy to be in the water. There was a group of dogs who came out to join me.
(I don’t remember the others well, but I know I went back to San Fransisco and was visiting the hostel. I was upset and my mum was holding me and I said all I wanted to do was go back.
In another dream I was in the backyard of 94 and it had all been dug up and was huge mounds of dirt everywhere. I was sitting atop one of the mounds).