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I. I shouldn't listen to this album in the morning, when I am trying to pack or get ready or you know go through the day because it makes me want to make you be alive. Be alive for real. Not hyperbole or literary bullshit. Just not be dead. To time travel back to September and be able to move really quickly a thousand miles in my sleep and shove my hand down your throat so you throw up and get to be alive.

 Sometimes when I am walking down the street here I stick out my hand so you can hold it. Like I'd clear out the front seat of my car. Because I believe in angels and everything. And there will never be a bad decisions month again. I won't write it on a cake and they won't feed it to a dog. Do you see me when I like this? Even when I put my head against the wall? What do you think when I cannot sleep or is it that much different now? It has to be. I mean with everything I believe it has to not feel like that. It has to not feel like anything. It has to be better than a feeling.

That is what I want to be guaranteed. Sometimes I can feel you walk right through me. I swear that I can. Sometimes I can't feel my hands, but that's not better than anything, and it's not nothing either. I guess you know that. And I don't know about my hands down your throat.

Or what our kids would have been called.

But I can kind of see myself somewhere in Ohio, barefoot and pregnant. I can see myself watching you with cards in your hands and wanting my babies to be born blonde. I could want to place a bet on it and never fold.

With all of these songs and every album in the morning. Because no one else had ever learned all the words for me. And my mother brought me cups of tea for days. And my dog licked tears of my face.

And I don't remember October of 2011. Do you know that there are so many whole months of my life that I don't remember? I guess you do. In the car before smartphones when we'd have to argue out the lyrics because there was no way to check.

We'd argue out the lyrics. We'd place bets. I was the one telling you what it meant to be left handed. You were the one telling me I had to write some story, some book.

II.
You called me from a bar when I was a few blocks away from here. You were with my cousin, Michael. It was still so funny, like it's funny now that the world is small. I had just gotten off work and they just built the New Seasons so I was sitting outside waiting for something. Like to be happy because I couldn't be. It was longer than a year ago. Maybe February, but probably January. You said you'd come out next month. But the first thing you said is "Are you writing?"

     "Are you writing?"
     "I don't write at all anymore, Brett."
     "That's all you need to worry about doing, kid."
      "I haven't written anything in almost a year."

And your whole voice changed so I could feel it in your shoulders. And I'd talk to you in the same spot every night.
Because with pen or paper or even my own hands or a keyboard. I had no words.
Maybe then this wasn't the same city because I wasn't the same person. That's what I forgot to say last night about life. But everybody knows that, the way that Dorothy knows that. The way that no one or everyone at a funeral knows that. The way that there are whole months that I cannot remember. That time is relative. That perspective is the difference. That it doesn't have anything to do with what you are looking at but how you are looking at it.

Or how I told you I couldn't stay up to listen to one more song. Because I was old and tired. And we would listen to it tomorrow.

And I did listen to it tomorrow. I think about it all the time because the lyrics just kept going can we get much higher
And when I got home I was going to tell you about things
But when I got home it was the kind of world where you see things like RIP on Facebook.

And I wasn't supposed to hate anything anymore. But I hated everything. And I called Michael. I must have called Michael. And Bailey. And Ilana. Because I wanted my six hours back. And I was young and not tired and could stay awake. And I could make this about me. If it was about me, it could be okay.

I could tell you what it was like to be left handed.

I can walk down the street and stick out my hand for you.

I can't listen to these songs in the morning.

I can't care if this is meaningless to other people. A lot of times they'll say "I read it but I didn't know what you were talking about." Maybe even Jackson doesn't know? But I doubt it. Even if he is mad at me. I miss Ilana. I miss my best friends. I miss Sawyer. I miss my mother too, because I always miss my mother when I get to talking like this. My hands start shaking and I can't recognize my own face. I see vacancy signs and I feel bad for strangers, people that have known me for less than four years that have to keep my company because they will try so kindheartedly to remedy the situation and see how I can be tended to. Scarlett O'Hara with an eyebrow arched in bed like she never ate dirt from the ground. We're both gonna get our waists that tiny again. We're only going to think the best thoughts in our heads, and no one's going to bother to put that in the movie.

III.

When someone asks "what's wrong?" The answer is truly nothing. The answer is that everything is going great. Nothing is wrong. Maybe for a moment I was just somewhere else. Because maybe all those months that went away are there somewhere. Isn't that a horrifying thought? That they could just be stored away somewhere. And one day maybe, like time, you could just be in them.
I used to wish I could travel in time-- and isn't that how I started this whole thing-- with my hands down your throat? Isn't that where I want to be? I want to be before that even.
But where do I start and how?
And I'll never look up what really gets said in dozens of songs. I like your way better. Even if I'm right. We'll have to google it somewhere else. The kind of heaven I believe in does not have smartphones.

ABOUT THIS BLOG

Hysteria is not possible without an audience, that's why I need you baby. I've always needed you.







I have kept this blog since my first day of high school. It has been an outlet, a blessing, a curse. I talk extensively about anything, music, dudes, internet addiction &how text messaging ruined my life. Some entries are "friends only" but most everything else is public.

Danielascrima@gmail.com




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