heeeeyyyy ladies

single again.

it's midnight here in paradise and nothing's going the way they said it would in the brochure.

awww shit. oh life, you and your "lemons".

just saw the movie "pieces of april" again and its actually pretty good (despite katie holmes)

i got to take the morning off work because tommy has mono and i was really over-tired. think happy thoughts.

BOSTON 2005 is going to be great. i cant wait. no, really, this is killing me softly with his song. killing me softly.

NiGhT bAnD, yo.

whaddya think, jrich? dustin? ariel? anyone? it's a rough draft. more on the rough side than the draft side.

Some people might have called it a gloomy day, a sit-at-home-with-a-good-book-and-a-cup-of-tea sort of day, but these were the days Phoenix needed to be out the most. There was a kind of tension in the humid air, the sky’s warning that it could rain down on everything all at once. Like the moment before a first kiss, the energy bouncing off each other’s noses. She could feel it on the top of her head.
“I don’t understand why you insist on listening to the radio this loudly. I feel like I can’t talk to you,” (that was the point) “with this shit booming up at me,” said Robert; his voice staying at the same agitated volume even as he turned the music to an inaudible low. Phoenix loved music. She needed music. It allowed her body to feel useful. It made her feel beautiful. (It made her feel). It reminded her that listening was real, that the world turned, that other people could feel and feel like her: alive and dead all in one breath. That things mattered and could change and—
“Sorry.” She couldn’t think of anything to say, to “talk about.” She tried hard, and then tried harder. Everything was suddenly so dry…
“What’s wrong?” Nothing. Nothing was wrong. Nothing ever was, was it? The questions were the driving force. Nothing, nothing,
“Nothing.” Things she said were just thoughts and nerves and teeth, lips, tongue—inflections interpreted by her brain to mean something. The things she thought turned into the things she said and echoed sometimes so strongly in her ear it was like she’d just thought it over again. What made her words resonate, what made them real? Could he hear them too? Questions again.
“Why are you so quiet?”
“I’m just thinking, Bobby.” He liked it when she called him Bobby. It reassured him that there was still something there, some viable reason to use affectionate pet names, to be “cute” together, to distinguish her from anyone else. Feelings didn’t mean anything without words to define them, to communicate them, to create a common ground and make us feel understood and under control. But her feelings were indefinable, incommunicable, and terribly, terribly different.
He asked her what she was thinking about. He asked and asked and asked. He didn’t love her; he loved what she couldn’t (wouldn’t) answer.
“ Driving. I’m thinking about driving. We’re already late.” She always felt like sleeping. Only then could she avoid time. Time reminded her of the timeline she made in second grade of her life. She included pictures.
He asked her if she loved him. Yes, of course. She had answered to quickly. So she turned to look at him, to smile the way he thought she did when she was loving him the most. (When the tension of true feelings dissipates, thoughts fill in the blanks. If you want it bad enough, you’ll believe anything.) He was wiping ink off his left hand and didn’t notice. The road beckoned so she turned away from him, away, away, away. Sometimes she missed him even when he was right there next to her.
“Are you happy, baby?” Now this was another thing she didn’t understand. Why was everyone supposed to feel happy, why was that the goal? Happy made everyone nice and nice turned everyone into an indiscernible mass of teeth and sore cheekbones. Happy was just another word for fear. Fear of meaninglessness, of failing, of not being liked. Happy and nice were social excuses and lies conducive to small talk. Nobody ever knew you if you were HAPPY. Nothing was ever new in nice. Well today, on the 22nd of July, Phoenix was tired of lying to everyone, especially to Robert (and even to herself).
“No, Bobby, I’m not happy, really.” It had started to rain. The tension in the car only mounted. This was a moment, she feared, that she could not solve with a kiss. She lit a cigarette, the lighter being the only sound to interrupt the silence. She knew how much he hated when she smoked.
“You know how much I hate it when you smoke.” Thoughts turned into words she heard, she thought, she said. He said. The road reminded her that things were still real, that she was still going, that no clock would forgive her enough to stop.
He barraged her with questions and she was respectful and quiet. Robert always loved a good mystery. After the question marks came the periods, then the silence. Deep, unbreakable, sad and scary silence.
“Are you breaking up with me?” Robert’s voice was much higher all of a sudden.
“I need to sleep. I’m tired, Bobby.” He said they could skip his family barbeque and go back home. She didn’t turn around. The engine roared a little louder.

If you stand outside long enough you’ll need a sweater. She had been standing out there for a long time. And there it was, her sweater, right in the passenger seat next to her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, perhaps a little too softly, perhaps a little too loudly, (she couldn’t hear anymore) and turned the radio up.