Diarrhea Ramblings avec Marciel

October 27th, 2006 12:55am
Is there nothing else to strive for in life but love?
Let me cry on your shoulder.
Let me cry on your lap.

I scowl at this woman that comes into work. She gets a small espresso in a porcelain mug. She piles her books and papers onto the same table she sits at everyday. She makes about fifteen trips out to her car. Back and forth. Back and forth. She has succumbed to some form of OCD. She is on an insane mission. I can tell no one loves her. I wish she would go away. I would not miss her. She irritates me because no one loves her.

I am afraid that when we meet I will start to cry. And I will cry intermittently the whole time we are together. You will not know how to react to this outpouring of pain and heartache. The shoes that have squished my teeny heart will have tangled my aorta into an indecipherable web. I will fall in a heap at your feet. You will package me up nice and neatly into a box or a suitcase. You will either send me back home to Ohio (which is not my home) or bury me in a field somewhere off the turnpike.
I prefer the field.
Say some prayers for me to the heavens and kiss the cross around your neck. I will not press charges.

Our future contains many clanking teacup and saucers, pacing and lying very still for long periods of time. I will hate you because my envy will have no where else to go. So it will ferment and become a dripping wet, sweet hate. I lied. It will be dry with a bitter center. It will make your tongue go numb. The sides of your tongue will curl up and try to retreat but there is nowhere to go but your throat. You don't want to choke, do you?
Our future contains absurdity, the perplexing and hilarious kind. I will dig and dig, yearning to make you laugh. Vying to see the softness in your eyes as you look at me. Not a look of pity, but tenderness.

November 6th, 2006 9:18pm
I sometimes have to go to the bathroom while I think of you. I am overwhelmed with such girlish glee that I feel I must hide it in the walls of a bathroom stall. Enflaming the happiness with toilet water and smiling into the cream colored door, pressing my body against it, as if it were you.

I hate to walk in on shivering toilet bowel water. I hate to sit my ass on a warm toilet seat. Something about the warm toilet seat makes me think of the ass that was there before me and it delays the process. A cold toilet seat triggers bathroom function immediately. Unless I have something on my mind. Then I have to focus on a point and count backwards from ten to one. At one, urine splashes the water and I have won.