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Dopamine Junkie's Freak v. 3.0
maximizing more than the freak.
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Tuesday, July 31, 2001
I'm getting something together.
Does anyone care about having that ad up there? if it matters to anyone, i've never solicited or even hinted at gifts. but jest saying, if it bothers you, you can take it down for me. Until midnight tonight, that is. And it could be a surprise. One day, the ad just won't be there! Or not. See Ad Free Blogspot Offer. This is the first/last commercial I think I'll ever post.
It is very early in the morning of Tuesday, July 31st.
My father's birthday today - which reminds me, I need to call him. Why so early? I'm on the mend, sort of, or at least I can detect from the note in my manager's voice that the sympathy that has carried for 3 weeks or so of this illness is running a little thin. So I move real slow. Giving myself twice as much time as "getting up/ready/out the door" actually takes. No painkillers. No caffeine. No bowl for breakfast except maybe some cereal this time. Lots of water. My vitamins and gross but effective Chinese herbs. I'm still tired. I could still sleep for days. But some worlds (esp. work world) are getting antsy without me. Or is it perhaps that they think it is unfair that I am telling the truth for once, and should really stay home and fully recuperate, for reasons of health? More acupuncture on Wednesday, too. It's nice to be out of my painful stupor. Thursday and Friday there, I felt so fragile, heart racing, breathing fast and shallow, each movement only resulting in more pain. I had no idea how literally my essential self energy would take this whole theme of burning me down to the ground. First emotionally, then physically. My body's way of pressing the reset button. Nice to still be young enough to have that option. Basta cosi. I don't wanna overdo it and I do need to start morning preparations. I just wanted to say good morning. And thank you. Foremost to the Green Eyed Pyromaniac, who is an awesome "Male Nurse." I'm a difficult patient, to be sure, almost like a 40 year old man in my stubbornness. And to all the tumbleweeds and crickets who sent me little notes of encouragement and choice packets to brighten my sometimes miserable days of loafing painfully around the house. Thank you. From Dope J, as well as the Infintesimal me in machina. My brain is a car that needs time to warm up. vroom. Friday, July 27, 2001
I am returned from the acupuncturist.
laden with herbs. lay off the painkillers, come back next week. It was bad at all. Tiny pinpricks that got screwed into till it tapped some ch'i. She did this at the base of my foot and I reflexively kicked up. That's it, she said. I feel more vulnerable than ever. Eating ganja toast cause I'm not smokin'. During the "uptake" of information all aspects of your life are questioned. I noticed that she skipped libido, which came after appetite. I wish she had checked it because I'm feverish and trembling the kind that wants hot lips kisses and fervent whispers. at the clinic they told me i had a low grade fever of 100.4 my pulse was slippery, weak, thready. I feel hot still. Pain still. my water is boiling.
On my way to my first acupuncture session ever.
I'm a little scared, because it's new and I'm going by myself. But these round-eyed doctors keep sending me for tests and telling me to take painkillers; they have proven to be of no value. I believe in ch'i. I believe in energy. But I've never done this before. But something has to ease this growing pain. dopamine junkie: thanks for all the get well wishes. I'm trying. We'll see and hope together. Thursday, July 26, 2001
Now this is pain I cannot eroticize.
Looks like I can't even twist my torso to the left or the right, I can't lie on either side, and when I lie flat on the ground the organs in my lower belly feel inflamed and in pain. Something's also going on under my rib. I can't lift my right arm, I can't reach, I can't move quickly. Last week this pain seemed to be getting better. Or duller. I had energy, I was laughing, I felt better. Wednesday morning, I dose myself with 4 birth control pills, and 4 more 12 hours later. This is what's called the "Morning After" emergency contraception. Women do this when they have had unprotected sex, or a condom breakage with their partner. Usually this method is prescribed with anti-nausea pills. My doctor is the most cold and unfeeling bitch ever. Answering my phone calls to tell her I'm in pain, with "What is it now?" Needless to say I am changing doctors quickly, but not quickly enough. So I am eating, but I can't sleep for the pain, unless I take a muscle relaxer which knocks me out for 4 hours solid or so. And then Pain wakes me up. You like that? Pain wakes me up! I wonder if this is some kind of karmic retribution. I wonder if someone is sending their negative thoughts my way. I wonder when this will get better and my life will get back to normal. Or perhaps this is a change that will alter the previous course of "normal life". Perhaps my secret psychic death wish is being answered. Perhaps I have been so blase about my nihilistic attitude that my organs are taking me up on my offer, to clear up some space on the planet. * * * * May 10th was the last time I saw Hugo. May 13th was the day we said the final goodbye. Or rather, the "see you later, someday". May/June/July. Only 2.5 months. And I don't know if it's because I'm so torn down right now, but I'm really seeing the downside of "loneliness". The Pyromaniac has been constantly at my side, but he doesn't want the *boyfriend* status, and I can't hang that moniker on anyone until I feel that it's not a bad word anymore. There's a lot of human progress being made between us - a symbiosis of sorts. But I fear that my soul is too hungry too soon for a melding. I fear that I can only reach completion with another. I fear that I am not sure if I am right to want to achieve my next level that way. Are we supposed to be doing this on our own? Should I not be holding someone's hand as I break out of my imprinted exoskeletons to move forward and upward into the unknown? Who says I shouldn't? It's difficult for me to articulate the feeling I have for the young man with green eyes. I watch him growing and changing, loving and caressing. I feel his Love innocence breaking down something jaded within me. But all the same, I am doing my best to be cognizant. To be responsible. To offer him a way out because I fear that I am not pure enough anymore. But my heart, loves so strongly and so easily. And I sit up in pain, to watch him sleep. Overcome with the need, choking with love words I don't know if I should say. Because I'm not altogether sure of myself, my worth, my ability to open myself up to vulnerability again. I'm not one to consult Magic 8 balls, and I've learned that the consult of *others* most often lacks a certain level of awareness of self, and of the bigger picture. I try to follow my instincts, I try to follow my heart, I try to be cognizant of my responsibility to myself and to others. I try not to let pragmatism hold me back from loving overmuch. I try to remember to let my world expand, laying off the old friends with limited value, interest and drag coefficient. When life is awful and overflowing with pain, I sing. The resonance throughout my body is therapeutic.
Bitter Soup this time.
Something is awry with my shell. I've been illin' again. Why can't my idiot doctor figure out what's wrong with me? It's been almost a month that this ailment has taken me over. I know there are worse cases of pain and medical suffering out there. Whatever it is, it should be easy to fix. But it's not getting fixed. The sword in my head is dulled by the sleep, the pain and the painkillers. That's why I haven't been able to write. Needless to say this health problem has left me pretty disenchanted. One valiant young man has absorbed most of the responsibility of my caretaking. Not only soothing me, caring for my health when I want to starve and self-destruct, but distracting me with pleasure. I don't particularly enjoy dependence on another person, as I've always secretly agreed with the maxim: Beneficium accipere libertatem est vendere [To accept a favor is to sell one's freedom] I was once a needy girl, a needy friend. The pull of my need was strong, and many friendships within my network were put to the test. But I am a lucky girl. I had people who took care of me. I am less that girl now, less that way. I've struggled to be self-reliant, but I understand that one cannot live outside of a social network. And that's one of life's blessings -- having a family of friends who will support you when needed. It's more difficult now to lean on anyone. It was different with Hugo. As a couple we faced the worlds troubles together. I never had to worry that he wouldn't take care of me if I needed care. That's security. We had a pact that we would take care of each other, we were responsible for each other. Because we wanted to be, because that's just the way it was. I will meditate tonight and draw all my forces together inside me. Perhaps try to isolate my pain and pour whatever energy I have left into easing my own pain. I feel sometimes it's too heavy to share with anyone else. Especially him, the beautiful green-eyed Pyromaniac. This is not what he bargained for -- sometimes I feel a failure because I am not the aggressive and sexual seductress he wanted. Instead I am this Frida Kahlo-esque invalid. And I don't even paint. The pain is back in full effect, so I need to go now. Any positive energy you can send my way would be wonderful. Thank you and I apologize for the lack of excitement. thedopaminejunkie _end of line_ Sunday, July 22, 2001
Been ingesting other content rather than writing my own. But soup is cooking, as usual. Should serve tonight perhaps. Musing the other day about the Variety and Quality of Cum I hate it when it gets in my hair Hacker Pedo Fantasy Some people like bestiality. It does nothing for me. However, the truly perverse in me would be fascinated by this movie, reviewed here, of a woman and an aardvark. Why? Because Aardvarks eat Ants, of course. *Scroll down to the last review: A trip to the zoo. I think it's nice to fall asleep and have someone carry me to bed and tuck me in. Because I'm small, it's happened to me quite often. a small niche of men actually fetishize this. Back later. Tuesday, July 17, 2001
My goodness, Missed Connections on CL is
a fascinating terrarium. There are a lot of people out there who might fit your profile. Whose attributes, interests and upbringing fall neatly into place as if a Western blot. All these lonely people, each one a potential "soulmate", each one with an idea that somewhere in this City, or on this planet, someone's got the key to unlock all their locks. How to Cook a Woman. Muki's Kitchen Pot Makes Girls Hot - well, rats at least. I'm learning on this journey, that love relationships need fundamental ingredients to even stand a chance. *Temperature (? - trying to get some alliteration going) You gotta hit the chemistry with the meat inside. If synapses don't heat, it's not going to last. *Thirst/Lust (I know, I'm cheating) You gotta lust after or have chemistry with the shell outside. *Tools You gotta have proper tools of acceptance, patience, understanding to engage in healthy communication. Oh, and good "other" tools, too. *Timing You gotta hit a good patch of timing. *Tenacity You need someone who will strive with you to reach a new level. What are the odds you might intersect with all of these, with one person, at the same time? That in the course of your busy life, somehow you stumble upon all these things wrapped up in someone you want with equal parts dirty, and equal parts sweet? My heart is supposed to be on hiatus. My "Love" is jaded and dirty and twisted. I'm hand shy of relationships. Afraid to be hurt, afraid to hurt. Traumatized too recently by painful mistakes, endless arguments and nighttime rejections, cruel words and stoic walls. I had my own voice professionally strangled in my throat. My inner freak, my passion, wrestled down, unplugged, punished, living in a tight silver box deep inside me, cryogenically frozen. But then someone started to wake her up. Reaching deep within the grey matter. And now I'm halfway in, halfway out. Left dangling in this nether space. Wondering what's good FOR me. He's young, the Pyromaniac. And hasn't yet been through the relationship rigmarole. But to be with him, to sleep beside him, to kiss him doesn't feel wrong. But I want to be right, do what's right, right for me this time. Even if that means being alone. He thinks, with every argument we have, that I will run back to the Connoisseur. His tantrums about C show me his character and impatience. The thing is, which is funny (funny like a funeral), the Connoisseur has not been an *option* for me for a long time. He's off the market, off-limits. He's got a brand on his ass and it ain't mine. On the Connoisseur: A brief recap, alpha and omega, of sorts. A l'inception, je pensais que parce qu'il etait plus age que moi, peut-etre, avec lui, je pourrais apprendre quelque chose. C'etait la priorité surtout. Il m'a dit que je lui plaisait comme une amie surtout, qu'il voulait que je reste dans sa vie pour longtemps, meme si nous ne sommes plus "ensemble". Mon Dieu, my tenses are affreux. The Connoisseur has found a lady his own age and speed. Someone who's jaw does not seem to tire of his tool. I am not jealous. Happy for him. Because he is also lonely. But sad that somehow he and I missed a window to merge creatively. It's the other stuff that kept our rapport from becoming "a real thing", the difference in our interests and ages, no matter our basic compatibility in temperment and understanding. I'd asked him for the step back, or step out, into pure friendship, no sex. I don't know if that was before or after his new lady friend came into his life. Our understanding also had implicit non-disclosure agreements. To be frank, the sex was hungry, primal, and purely hedonistic. He got what he needed from me, I got what I needed from him. These weren't the same things, though. A basic understanding of needs, a charming arrangement between sexually liberated and emotionally sophisticated individuals. But the sexual current was a shared sense of movement, sensuality, appreciation for giving and receiving pleasure. An exercise in hedonism, rather than a purely organic synaptic charge ? We didn't talk much, during sex. But he was giving when I did not feel giving. Or rather, he took me as I desired to be - just taken. He made me feel beautiful again. Sensual. As I felt I was inside. But the domesticated hausfrau, unsexed and dry, that I had become was the shell I slipped out of with my clothes, when I met him, those times. I had nothing of my heart to give him. Affection, passion, companionship, but not the possibility of 'love'. Also patient, maddeningly patient enough, to leave me in the corner to break down, catatonic, weeping, because perhaps he understood that I'm just that way. The Connoisseur is a man who loves women. All kinds of women. Who specializes, I think, in neurotic women. Who lives for lovers, being a lover. But he is lonely too, in his soul, for the one who brings the mind and the flesh together. Perhaps now he has found her. He hopes so. I hope with him. Me in the Connoisseur's Overall Menu? I berate myself, which angers him, because he knows I debase myself to protect my feelings. I think perhaps I am just fuel for art, a snack, a sorbet between LTRs. He says he just thinks of me as a "fabulous and sexy woman friend I know." So we have a brief and torrid history. I will still demand to be invited to *their* dinner parties. And how we shall laugh lightly about past kisses and caresses, and he will take his wife's hand and squeeze it reassuringly, perhaps planting a soft kiss with an erotic whisper by her ear. I will be the "fabulous and sexy woman friend" from the past, still alone, smiling tightly and sadly, swilling wine that somehow tastes a little more bitter. I'm not saying I am angry or jealous or anything like that. It's just that feeling that I get, that somehow everyone understands something about Love that I don't. I am happy for the Connoisseur. And am thankful for what I've learned from him, and what I learned about myself, with him. Our window was brief, but I think we both knew, that we weren't playing on the same level. And we both deserve someone who is. _Engage Vibekilling Firewall_ You boil it all down, and the ephemera evaporates. What's left at the bottom of the pot? Sweet Little Memories. My new fascination is the Bicameral Mind. Julian Jaynes is another one I'd add to my fantasy dinner party. He could sit next to Hermann Hesse, and Joseph Campbell, Ayn Rand, Anais Nin, et al. Green Eyes, if you're out there. I'm soft. -end of line- Sunday, July 15, 2001
I got woman troubles, Gene Kelly says.
That proves you're a man, his companion says. At home, recuperating and depressed. Feeling better. Feeling worse. I forget what a hopeless romantic I have been/can be/still am way deep down inside until I catch An American in Paris on the telly. And Gene Kelly has Leslie Caron backed up against a wall against the fake backdrop of the riverbanks of the Seine, and he's caressing her cheek and singing tenderly the rockies may crumble gibralter may tumble they're only made of clay but our love is here to stay Dance sequence. And I'm stoned, dried tearstains, hiccuping with ebbing sobs, and I'm entranced and I'm singing along Love songs can hypnotize you when your feelings are confused and nebulous and you find an anthem that resonates and seems to "explain it all" And your rules for loving become didactic because a love song cemented feelings in you that you couldn't express or explain yourself Just like any other religion. Today's music being blamed by many for encouraging violent actions. We need a new warning label for Love Songs. Music is dangerous. It can control our moods, our perceptions, our minds. When you're angry, listen to angry music. When you're sad or feeling neglected, rejected or disenfranchised, there's music for that too. Why can't they just categorize music that way, in the record stores I mean? Happy section, Party section, Angry section, Misogynist section, Depressed section, Sexy Music section Feeling lonely section. while we reformat the music stores, why don't we reformat the radio stations too? End of Rant [ I apologize. I don't know what's come over me. ] I feel slightly disoriented with the mundane routine. I've wandered our empty house alone like a ghost all last week. I have cabin fever. Caged Tiger. Ress. Cub. Kitten. No where I want to go Nothing I really need to do, or buy, or see. I'm absent. A non-entity. Haunting the rooms like a ghost Manifesting all signs of flux From catatonic to giggling to depressed and anxious the full light show crazy spectrum today I need to find this glitch inside me that fuels my subconscious need to alienate others from my life. Always keeping a safe distance. Not calling out for help. Not directly. Do I want to be alone? Do I need to be alone? It's hard to be alone. Life's problems and aggravations are always softened, cushioned when you can divide their impact by two Instead of absorbing them all by oneself. Around me I smell the desperation of Aging twenty and thirtysomethings who are jumping on the relationship lifeboat. Everyone find a buddy! It's the buddy system! How will I build the new family, the new network, around me, that will buoy me when I need support, whom I will in turn support when needed? The "Playlist" or "Network" of loved ones changes all the time. The Connoisseur, one of the many wise things I have learned from him, has gone so far as to draw out his grid, his network, crossing off and marking and making notes on the people in his life. And when a connection becomes outgrown, stale, or betrayed, time to prune. Why spend time of your life with anyone, who isn't either going to support you when you need it, or help you reach your next level? My girlfriend and I are playing video games. She's dropped in to check up on me. We're talking about her boyfriend, who I hate and who treats her like a doormat. She's fabulous but she takes his chickenshit and meanness because she's psycho and she loves him. You don't understand [ she says, trying one more time to convince me ] He's not like he was before. The tables have totally turned. And I feel sad for him. So you're with him because you feel charitable? No! I love him [ she says ] But you're not in love with him. No. I haven't been, for months. The thing is [ there's always "the thing" ] is that I enjoy his company. So, let me get this straight: you love him, but you're not in love with him. you're not into him anymore, sexually, and he can't make you cum and you no longer care. you're sad for his loneliness with out you. So, I'm sorry, why are you still going on with this charade? [ with her, i'm the ruthless friend ] I don't know! I love him. [ she pouts ] He seems like a habit you can't break. And I know what that's all about. [ i eat another cracker ] You don't know, you haven't seen lately, how good he is to me! Just because he's good to you, doesn't mean he's good FOR you. [ i'm out of crackers ] Friday, July 13, 2001
Time to pick apart my faults again!! Yeay! ( you're free to leave at any time.). One. I place my animus outside myself Two. I am a chronic self-negater. Three. I believe in my dissociated selves. Four. I am prone, at all times, to bouts of chronic depression (downswing part I), and self-loathing (downswing part II) Five. I can't ask for what I want (therefore you don't deserve it) [ hey you already said that ] Six. I choose what I want more often than I choose what I need. Seven. Too much porn and a lifetime cultivated negative self body image along with perceived rejections make me sick with Anhedonia. Eight. I don't take care of myself, health-wise. I don't eat regularly, or well enough. I don't work out. I could go on. But I'll stop now. You are free leave at any time. *Ah, little cherub. How the stars twinkle and the clouds mist when you begin to berate yourself, like no one else can.* STOP! I've been resting. In the time that I've spent away from writing, I've been thinking. Not too terribly hard, but I've been laughing and crying and feeling. "It's like you're dying." the pyromaniac mentioned to me once. Yes, it's true, part of me is dying. The discarded exoskeleton slowly being devoured, the remnants left to decay. But can you see the new growth in me? Not one step closer to perfection. But another graduated level, another phase of the living game. Links that "helped" a little. Lego Porn Better than Literotica. Free. Hands Free Scrolling at differing speeds! It is my wish that someday I will have the courage and the motivation to live up to the highest vision of myself.
Calling on DJ, DJ are you there? do you read me?
Infintesimalme calling on DJ? [ dj: (sleepily, groggily) Wha-ha? Wassup? Whachu need? I.me: time for me to split, at least for the time being. dj: wait, where are you goin? I.me: gonna put the whine to sleep. Whining's bad for business. It's the sexy that sells. dj: well, I've been asleep the past coupla days due to our mysterious "ailment". I.me: right, so you gotta inject some flava . . . dj: Aight. I feel you. Lemme try to bring some heat. I.me: just for like a minute. just to snap us out of this sickroom. ] We last left our heroine about to leave for the Radiohead show. Because most events have lost the heat of their arguments, let's offer up a brief encapsulation of the evening. Radiohead = more amazing than I would have ever imagined. the demographic at Shoreline = any and all who would surf CL's personals. Cute girls, cute boys. Looked like an Urban Outfitters and vintage/thrift store fantasy. My mood = slightly altered by mushrooms that didn't hit that hard. [ . . . it wears her out. it wears her out. ] Ha. 2 weeks off the blog and I've lost my flow. Alls I can say is. One night before Independence Day, the young Pyromaniac, who has opted back in, who loves setting fires to my synapse, and who doesn't seem to mind the smoke, whisked this little girl away. Riding around in his automobile One hand on her, and one on the wheel Petting the purring kitty, fingers scooping up the cream Keeping my kitty in a perpetual state of froth How many times, did we pull over to the side of the road? And he would put his mouth on me in the dark of night abandoned parking lots highway turnouts headlights of cars flashing against naked skin until he got out of the car or told me to sit on his lap where he would pump me a few delicious strokes until I was panting only to withdraw and leave me empty my insides begging he zips up, inscrutable wipes his mouth and looks down at me with a satisfied smirk gets back on the road and I am left curled up in the passenger seat whimpering, mewling my soiled little panties dangling off my ankles. this is only the beginning he takes me on the side of a deserted road strips me of my denim cutoffs lifts me to the roof of his car where my kitty mouth is level to his tongue and lashes me until I am too self-conscious of my legs spread wide open and my head thrown back until he sits down in the passenger seat and instructs me to sit on his lap where I ride him, reverse cowgirl style on the side of the road bouncing shamelessly up and down on his slick erection in the broad daylight until he gets up and makes me lay back so my near naked body can receive the compliment of ropes and ropes of thick cum all over me. Later that day we celebrate Independence with a visit to Harbin Hot Springs. Remember? The beautiful grounds and natural hot springs soothing in the heat. He and I walking nude amongst other bare-ass nekkid people. It's relaxing, the heat of the springs, of the air, of the sun on bare skin. Liberating. Thursday, July 12, 2001
This is what's left of me, honey.
Broken inside and out. The only thing preserved is the Sentient Meat inside my shell, beyond all visceral organs. Speaking of visceral organs, I had an ultrasound done today. Still checking up on what's wrong with me I guess. I'm bored of feeling sick and eating toast and drinking tea.
I sit at my keyboard like a pianist at a piano.
Proper posture, hands poised. I don't know what symphony or cacophony will flow from me, the composition usually hits like a blitzkrieg. I don't have any prescribed topics, just the world whirling around me. Today I feel Frida Kahlo-esque in my pain. Still waiting for the results of the blood tests to come back. Still hurting like a mothafucka inside my tummy. Still eating white bread, crackers and tea. All alone in the big house, which coincidentally, looks like we will lose on Sept 1 as the only leaseholder will be moving out. We'll see if the landlord will turn the lease over. But he's been resistant before. But enough, correct, basta cosi. That's not what you come here for. You come here for the salacious tales. Or perhaps that's just me, underestimating the care or concern of total strangers. Developments behind the veil include a Choice. One at a time. Giving tenderness a chance. The stranger emerged, from the ashes and soot, after much smoke inhalation and patient waiting, having found the place where I am still somewhat intact. The smoldering embers around the inexhaustible fire, the heart of me that never dies, that refuses sleep, that hopes even when hope hurts. If we look at Pragmatism and Idealism as two separate elements, when joined, their chemical reaction yields what? Something of importance. Something elusive. Sometimes destructive. Sometimes just a wish that floats into the air. When neither element is more potent than the other, or their struggle is continuous, I believe a new space is created. A fertile space. Where Love may or may not grow. Too long have I been asleep to this, that I might yield up my bitterness, so well ripened, to a bitter wine, and yield, like sinking my body into a pool of water, buoyed by something I can't myself explain. What is that tender moment when words choke with a soft caress of a cheek? And suddenly, from an unknown spring tears which I hold so firmly dammed, released like that sweet honey sap. Onto someone's eager and waiting tongue. If my heart were a delicacy If my pain were a delicacy I would be an acquired taste For those palates who appreciate bitter and sweet sweet and sour sour and tang smoke and embers blood blood blood There's a horrible awful bruise on my arm where my blood was taken Waiting for the results still And a little bleeding elsewhere It's all a bloody mess I am! A vampire's feast. Wednesday, July 11, 2001
I'm at home today. In too much pain to go to work.
Something's wrong with my insides and the doctor doesn't know what, yet. No drugs given to kill the pain. No painkilling for the tummy of me. So I jest sit here. And hurt. Eating toast and drinking ginger tea. I guess no one really wants to hear about that though. You're wondering, what's been going on? Where are the salacious tales? Tuesday, July 10, 2001
i am returned, medicated, and cheered
by the delivery of 10 new porn magazines to my door, for free! just when i thought life was making me eat a big scheisse. surprise! big butts! hustler! playgirl! forum! club! cheri! no tight, however. but i ain't complainin'! ok. so I've been blocked. overburdened with the constant analysis too much "thinking" on a moment not enough feeling of letting go. i think that's the anhedonic. Brace yourself. Here come the dissociative streams of consciousness. On Hugo: Still haven't seen him since the break-up. It's almost 2.5 months now. Communication only through e-mail. Although I did once break down and call him, one day, for 5 minutes. the phone rang 4 times and I thought I was off the hook. I could still bail on the voicemail. But on the 5th ring, he picked up. His voice, strong and professional, sincerely customer-service friendly. Hi, it's me, I said. Hey, he said, his voice softening. there are pauses, those moments of just silence. I just wanted to call to say hi is all. Nothing heavy. Just hi and tell you I'm alive. And to hear your voice. I offered. It's good to hear your voice, too. He says. Another pause. My heart is beating so fast, he says. Just hi, I said. Hi and hi. Nothing heavy. I'm not ready to talk. You know where I'll be when you're ready. I miss you. He says. I miss you too, I says. Well, I guess that's about it. I says. Another pause. Take care of yourself. he says. You too, I says. and just like that, it's over. Ghosts of Hugo and last summer. He emails me about memories he has, of us. He retells them as if he is going through a picture book in his mind. An animated gif. Our relationship in 20 or so frames. Hey, that's another project. Maybe I should work on that. His memories make me smile in a bittersweet way. But they do not touch me. He seems to recall the setting, the location, but never the emotional context. Never the motivations of the characters. Never his attitude, his actions, his cruelty and stoicism. Just snapshots of pretty moments. As he remembers them. Shallow memories. And I sit thoughtfully, quietly sometimes, thinking of him. Trying to think of a song to sing for him, that might connect my feelings again. Even of regret. Even of missing. Even of anger. Trying to access any feeling for him passion, anger, lust, remorse. Just to feel anything. Just to poke at the raw nerve. All at once I find that the absence of feeling is profound in itself. One MUNI morning last night, a halo around the moon this morning, in the richmond, it felt like june caffeinated and stony, no distress standing in line, for the 1 A express denim clad bus, no business suits it's friday casual, so i can wear my space boots my hair in knots, but it looks neat and i got one, of 2 single seats been uninspired by twat or cock so now i write about the block. I will begin version 3.0 with inelegance. Because that's how I feel right now. Inelegant. By the way, if you've made it to this third incarnation of the Dopamine Junkie, it's because you've been around, corresponded with me, and haven't stalked me or frightened me in any way. I want to feel safe here. Why do you think I keep running away? If you're here, too, then you might as well see me, albeit briefly. Where shall I begin? Oh yes, with inelegance. I will simply transcribe the notes I've scribbled, on receipts, post-it notes, my beloved blank books ( i'd forgotten to mention that blank books are a fetish of mine. I can never get enough, afford enough), napkins, etc. So please bear with me, in no particular order I will present the sputterings. Afterwhich, I shall smoke another bowl, and bring the chronicle up to date, replete with salacious tales, of confusion and love and sex and living. Deep breath before we plunge in. But then again, it's only you Cricket, and you Tumbleweed, out there. I'm gonna smoke a bowl before I continue. Because I'm feeling poorly health-wise. My insides is all messed up. The med. assistant at my dr's office missed my vein once, and then finally got the needle into my vein and drained me. I'm a little woozy. I can't eat proteins, fats, fruits or vegetables or anything at all with fiber. White rice, white bread, crackers. Bland Bland Bland. My little self is breaking down. Off to medicate.
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