experimental heather

nobody new comes by anymore. it’s all the same faces. all wearing the same jeans with their sweatshirts tucked in — i never did like wearing sweatshirts, they just accentuated my fat ass.
it’s dark and it’s dingy, the ceiling fans haven’t spun in so long, there are bird’s nests in them. i think they’re swallows. i hear swallows are the worst. noisy. shit a lot. wasn’t there a story on the news once about this unusual swallow migration and all the poor bmw owners were shaking their fists skyward while calling their auto detailers? maybe those were starlings. i can only do two bird calls: pigeon & crow. they’re pretty damn good, if i do say so myself.
it’s a cluttered day, with lots of piles and missing things. i can’t find… whatever it is i needed. my memory is shot these days. i have yellow stickies everywhere. i used to write insightful, interesting, entertaining things on them and put them all over my bedroom walls. now they have phone numbers, ip numbers, partial grocery lists, squiggles from testing pens to see if they had enough ink to write more phone numbers, ip numbers and partial grocery lists. i’ll tell you a secret… if i have to write a phone number down, i will never phone it. i’m good with phone numbers. if it’s important to me, i’ll remember it on the spot. bang! it’s in my head. for almost ever.
i miss spud.
the batteries died in my remote control last week. i still sit there, three feet from the tv, pressing the buttons actually expecting them to do something. there’s a word for that. no, it’s not futile. although, i could really use a new screwdriver.
i wanted to tell you about the dreams i’ve been having lately. all the chasing and the breasts and the sinister heads turning slowly, so slowly, towards me with bad news. exhilarating! parilyzing. tv dreams with all the credits smooshed over to the side to make room for MORE commercials. more fucking commercials! can you believe it? don’t we have enough? there’s advertising on everything. it’s fucking eye pollution. nothing is pure and clean anymore. flat space! slap up a billboard or a thousand artfully arranged posters (which, i have to admit, is sometimes even beautiful)! fucking fuckers.
the girl, with the blond hair and the birkenstocks (when i didn’t know what it meant that they were birkenstocks). the girl in my theatre class. the girl who, on the bus one day, spent the entire thirty-minute trip to school staring into my eyes, describing their colours and textures to me with her artist’s language. i still remember that day, that feeling. someone paying so close attention to me — to me! — that whenever i’m asked what colour my eyes are i want to reply with her words because they made them sound so beautiful and breathtaking. i think she wanted to kiss me. if i hadn’t been so naive maybe i would have kissed her first. right there on that bus. in front of everyone! no. i wouldn’t have. i’m too frightened of rejection to kiss anyone first. even a girl who was in love with my eyes.
sleep now. dreams later. thank you.
i’m sorry i’m so difficult.