Every Form of Refuge Has Its Price

Sooooo... three cheers for the overly-optimistic nut. I like to think I'm not too picky, really, I like things to be mostly upfront. I mean a little mystery now and then is lovely, but sweeping things under the rug just isn't my style.

Apparently, it doesn't have to be, because I'm the one getting swept under the rug. Dandy. There are many tiny moments that corroborated my opinions, made me think I had a chance. Like how they played my song, him and his band, when I asked them to. How comforting he always was. How, when we went out on a proper piss-up, then had to take one girl home, which killed the mood a little and made a couple of people call it a night, he stayed out with me because I didn't want my night to be over yet. The things he said to me and the way he properly listened to the things I said. There was something so delightfully genuine and organic about the whole thing. It was lovely. Sometimes it's not hard for me to smile, to be giddily joyful for no apparent reason. I thought I was out of the woods, I thought I was free and clear from when he told me to put down my cup of tea. If it is true, that thing that he couldn't say without sounding like a prick, and I didn't make him say out loud (maybe I should have) then why did he tell me to put that cup of tea down? Something changed. Likely, he sobered up, realized what had happened, and kicked himself for it. It wouldn't be the first time.

But I'm back to being let down. Broken down because I'm not a good idea. I'm not worth my past. Well, at least I'm not beige in this one. Because the stupid things I've done in the past and the hurts I've caused myself and other people have caused me aren't enough in and of themselves, they now get re-validated as the reasons for more hurts. Maybe it's because he's afraid.

I've had a lot of late nights and early mornings this week, which perhaps accounts for my slightly warlike stance by 3 am. I am not one to take things sitting down. And when the person I most want to confront is, for one reason or another, impossible to confront, I tend to go on the warpath against the person or people I find most connected to the problem. Yesterday was unusual because my target, unexpectedly, was myself. There was a little bit of railing against the people in my romantic past, particularly the past year, but for the most part I was my own victim. Sometimes I say the words I'm most afraid someone else will say just to lessen the blow of it if they ever do say them. As though if I've already said it out loud, already acknowledged it, they're just restating things I already know, and it won't hurt as much. I aired a huge number of my insecurities, well, mostly just a couple many many times in the form of jokes at my own expense. Not particularly well-thought out or funny jokes, but jokes nevertheless. I am the girl who, even wearing the shirt I had on last night, can't get a guy to buy her a drink in a bar. I am the girl who is so much more attractive when you're drunk, and who you regret kissing the next morning, if you even remember her face. Perhaps this honorary man business isn't all it's cracked up to be.

As tempted as I was, I didn't do it. I wanted to, fairly desperately, but for some reason last night the toxins just didn't happen. Could have been a lot of reasons. It could have been Bear's presence, it could have been the little white plastic thing. It could have been because hurting myself emotionally is getting to be enough for me, I don't need to fuck with my body too. I'm not sure which reasons in what concentrations are responsible, but I didn't wake up with that familiar stale taste in my mouth, and I'm glad. The war paint is back on with a vengeance though.

Oh what can it mean?
Daydream Believer