A Tendor History in Rust

4 hours left.

I've always written on New Years, retrospectively. I want to remember who I was with last year at this time, nibbling carrot sticks in some dining room in Watertown. I remember the sweater I was wearing, the champagne flying across the room, and feeling older than I really was. I remember the snow on the ground, and the ice on the steps. I remember going home, driving home in spite of the ice and the cold.

If we're being retrospective, I owe more apologies than I have fingers to count with. I wish I could whistle. I wish I could send today's warmth into the hearts of all those I care about. As if it would fix them, fix us, or just make them smile.

I still hate doing the dishes. That hasn't changed. I've just had more alone time to think about it.

The blessing of his life.

I sign contractual agreements I cannot fulfill. It is a classic behavior of mine: unreliability. I guess you could call me a flake. The secret that lives deep within my stomach lining tears at my heart. It makes me turn my eyes away from their questioning gaze. Everyone that cares for me needs to hear that I am okay. However, I'm running down the street, I'm smashing the window with my mind on the only one thing of value in that house to me. The only living reminder of my father's mother. It's something to keep me warm for the cold nights ahead.

Unreliable, but I would never punish them with the cold. Especially for something so small: something that you could hold in your hands, or wear on your body: something that could be returned or compensated for: something that hurt no one.

The glass will bite through the skin of my knuckles. I'll think of your face, your glasses knocked to the ground. How I prefer your dog. And that will hurt. You, yes physically, but mostly me for wasting my time, for being so weak, and for starting a fight with my anxiety that I'll always loose.

And I'm falling down over cold pavement and looking around but no ones there. I can see the bus back home, just not the home I'm supposed to go to.

Tonight:

It all changes.

Dogs/Mike Kinsella

I've always felt like Mike Kinsella was singing right to me. Whether I was succumbing to sleep on a purple train back to Lowell, or trying to warm my toes driving through the Appalachian Mountains. You're much more attached to things like that back here. The mountains, I mean. They're always on the horizon, right behind the "bojangles" sign. There isn't anything real beautiful here. If I wanted to live somewhere beautiful, I'd move to West Virginia...or I'd just crawl back home with my tail between my legs.

There are things to look forward to though. Paychecks seem to warm my heart even though I don't really own anything or buy anything that doesn't end up in either one of our stomachs eventually. I always liked cooking and buying food. I look forward to singing again too. I look forward to making new friends.

I just don't stop thinking about snowflakes and how, even though its bitter cold here, we can't seem to get a day that isn't sunny. Living without a cell phone has been the most liberating thing I've done since I moved from Lowell. I'd like to latch on to a mover or a shaker but I'm at a standstill at a busy intersection with nowhere to go but back.

I wish I could text my friends that I miss them...just so they could text me back that they miss me too. That is the most selfish thing I want.