Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 751. I shut this down, and slumped outside, pausing to debate the benefits of taking the phone with me, on the off chance someone would call. But, I should know by now that no one calls. No one calls you back when you hang up on them. Sitting outside on the back step, I compose an entry in my head, listening to the scratching claws on the door, and the constant whine of my cat, aware the pain in my head is echoing the pain in my back. I wonder about how much shit I had to take today, when I wanted to get lost in a book, or some music and some smoke and a beverage. And you work so much, there's not any more left to you when you're through. Not enough to have a conversation, so I drone on about my day, this insanity and that insanity, and you're mumbling into the receiver. We're left with a Friday night fight, terse conversations had in Arial fonts with stupid, insipid names attached that meant something at one time, but have become silly and vulgar. So what the fuck? I hang up on you to get a reaction, met always with a cool aside, and a change of subject. We've played this scene out with different players, and it always leaves me sitting alone, on the back step, composing an entry in my head, smoking. I wonder what you'd give to change that. 10:41 p.m. - 2003-10-17 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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