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The phone rang at 1:17 today, while I was sitting in my car, and I answered, because I thought it was you, but it was a wrong number.

I can't (think).

I can't (say).

But, I bashed my right elbow on the desk today, and it still fucking hurts.

It just hurts, everytime I brush it against something, everything hurts. Really.

My elbow especially. Which reminds me of hurting other parts, ankles, toes,, necks and arms. And how you were always so careful to avoid those spots when you were on top of me. As though prompted, that spot I can't reach on my back itched. Probably on Orion's belt. I have constellations on my back, from too much sun as a child. Those of us who don't, or rarely, sun burn were always left without sun screen. It wasn't cool in 1978. So now there are some of us who have tiny dark brown spots, dots, moles, covering us. They embarrass me, the ones on my back. Though the ones on my feet are cute.

Man, I'm not dumb. But, I'm stupid. I wonder if the smart me has anything to do with how stupid I am.

So, I'll smoke until I pass out, or read until I'm lost. I won't worry about you, or what you're doing, or if you miss me.

Because I can't think (about it).


"I don't know, Mom. I think I like the romanticized version of you and Dad."

"Which version is that?"

"The one where everything was okay."

6:14 p.m. - 2003-07-08


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