Friday, September 26, 2014


marci and i are on the same page but she just wouldn't believe that they keep calling the police. she's like, no, you must have it wrong.

I TELL YOU IT IS THE POLICE CUZ I CAN READ THE BODY LANGUAGE AND THE LUNGING. they have people coming after me when i'm crying and scared because they say i'm aggressive when i say i'm really too scared because i can't understand what i'm reading to function, and that i feel like i have to kill myself. my professor wants this one assignment due that's a journal and i can't figure out what it is. i think i've read every page of the syllabus but i can't remember because when i get to a glitch and a page won't display i get really suicidal and have to stop, just stop, just watch some copper or red dwarf and fall in love with men who don't exist, and then feel so sad that despite donal logue choosing characters who are just so feminist he plays a complete asshole who will cut a woman while she's down and leave her fetus bleeding out....

anyway, so i have to do that or all the flashbacks will unlock...because...if i can't read...then how do i exist? if i can't read how is it possible that anything in my life has ever been real? i have this deaf friend who gets really pissed off when i correct her in the store looking for baby stuff, and i said to her that "priced as marked" means no discount, so don't expect one, but maybe you'll get lucky--and because she did get a discount she keeps telling me i'm not as smart as i think i am and that my english is far from good.

but i just turned to her in the checkout lane and said, "i'm fucking right...don't you ever, ever doubt my ability to read and understand got lucky, i said you might, and it's not worth fighting over, so drop it--but i'm telling you, i understand grammar just fine." she did...after a while. and i am just not the type--it's just that she had a budget, and then in line she was like, "here, you pay for these two things; i can only spend $20."

i was this far from telling her to stuff it. but the baby is just too cute, and too sweet, and she's increasingly rough. i keep telling her that i understand it's frustrating raising a baby by yourself, but you can't jerk a baby around and slap him for sliding down in an ill-fitting wooden high chair, you tell me to watch your baby while you enjoy being at a restaurant...or let him slouch because he's happy with peas all over his face. cutest little bundle!...

so if i'm scared i'm not real and that all this is a just a creepy nightmare and i can't actually read or write, and i'm having flashbacks of being raped by a lot of guys who are really intimidated by my writing--my talent--hearing men are just as bad as deaf men, but not all hearing guys--they're just already married!

and mike made me promise not to marry anyone who won't have my back and do all the housework because holding down a job outside the home and all the artistic jobs i have at home are much more important than vacuuming. that i can't let myself get trapped with someone who won't support my talent in that way. and i just get discouraged when i remember all the ones who tried to beat me up or kill me. it's really scary because when they try to kill me usually it's a spur-of-the-moment anger that just aliens forth in a bloody fury they didn't expect to have to employ. because i'm like, "no, no, no sex." mostly no kissing either. i had to physically eject this nasty bastard who made out with me as we were waving goodbye on a dark street, his hand down my pants--and, thank god, it was the bronx, so a bus flew by and he disengaged.

he was thin and peruvian, but he didn't mention that half his nose cartilage was missing, so he had a really flat nose. it actually wasn't unattractive but i kept wanting to vomit throughout the date and refused to let him draw it out. i asked him to leave early. he was so pissed off and i had to literally push him all the way to the door. he looked just like a peruvian fatso because of the nose--it was kind of a cute, wide, smushed button nose--it just kept my body ringing NO NO NO NO NO NO.

it's rare that someone actually looks like him, but i've met at least four in the last four years. i think six but for sure four.

david was the first, and i told david he was so my favorite man ever, the way he looked just like fatso until he started signing, moving just like joeray and the eyebrows and elbows, but suave, and with ty's facial expressions and eyes, chocolatey warm but on alert...and that it was amazing because he didn't hit me or threaten to destroy my life because i can really write but it's not fair that i can write because they want to write.

then he hit me. right away. to tell me he wasn't like them. and he tore my head off.

and i just kept going back to see why he'd hit me. but he just kept getting angrier and angrier. he almost dislocated my shoulder the next time i saw him, our fourth date, because he was so ashamed that he couldn't donate any money to the wall street play we saw, a really fun one he fell in love with, just could not stop beaming through, chasing hamlet all through the mall, then abruptly yanking me when i started to pull out a few bills...down the stairs...almost dislocating my shoulder, snarling, furious, stalking in the rain, not quite stalking off but boiling with shame and anger, hatred...of me.

then i slipped into his arm with the umbrella and gave him the lighter. when i tried to ask a few blocks down why he was so angry that i was paying for something i asked him to do, nice and dreamy, he just pushed me away and disappeared. i took the D alone, and he rode the D one stop further than i did.

this is what i don't like about people who try to grab me or keep me from getting out of the room, or break my arm. or strangle me. they're all about telling me i've got to become someone else to live, and i won't.

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