Neon.
I am claustrophobic.
I have been since I can remember. I'm pretty sure it stems from some fear of suffocating. When I sleep, and I want to hide, I pull the covers up over my head and leave an opening for my mouth. I hate closed spaces. I don't like extended hugs. Boxes, closets, bathrooms sometimes, other people's cars. If I can't feel air coming in, it's no good. I scream and kick until I get away.
Too much of anything makes me feel trapped. Too many emails, too many phone calls, too much time together, too much attention. Ick.
I would like a relationship that's like a cardboard box. Except I want to be able to open the top when I feel like it, and I want peep holes cut into the sides. And, I want to be able to leave the box on the corner when I get tired of it.
This is the exact reason my husband lives in another country: he's my husband.
. . .
I'm pretty okay. Like I've found some kind of balance between the moments to be fucked up and the moments to be okay. It's nice to be without any real pending issues to pour into this.
Not that I'm without issues. I'm sure I am. It's just that they're not really important.
. . .
Get Nelson concert on VHS
I just found that post-it in my bag. Someone is going to have a very merry Christmas.
. . .
She comes and she goes
Like no one can
She comes and goes and no one knows