Boston, then a pool of blood, made me hate my city. There's something in the air that feels rotten lately.
Martinis, then a chilly conversation, gave me a lot of hope. Hope for much, much more than all this. A three-dimensional existence. This existence is more, believe it or not, than quoting. I quote less and less these days; I write more and more these days. (That said, I will assert that everyone who cares about words should listen to the Mountain Goats. John Darnielle makes sweet, sweet love to language every time he opens his mouth. I don't care what anyone else says.)
I want to be quieter. I want to speak with a manner in which only my bottom lip moves toward, then away from, my front teeth. Also, when I'm seriously making a point, my nose would bend slightly towards my mouth. I would bite my lower lip when nervous. I wish I could speak like that, but I can barely use the language anymore. Despite shortcomings like that, I'm a sweet girl; I should really be nicer to me. I'm always blaming myself for things! It's true because I am always apologizing. "Sorry", it turns out, is my default word. I use it to mean all kinds of things. I say "sorry" when I mean "excuse me" or when I am embarrassed or angry. Mostly, however, when I say "sorry" I mean "I love you." See, in the event of regret, I regret deeply. I've never not regretted being in love. I am terrified at the potential of my own love. I am also terrified of dying. But I am dying. And I am terrified. I am, therefore, dying terrified. (Whether or not I would rather, I will not live forever.) I can't get comfortable or I might die and not notice.
This is a song. It might be called "Carbon Monoxide"...
I woke up to sunshine
And I thought about gas jets
I thought about carbon monoxide
I wondered that I'm not dead yet
I wondered that I'm not dead yet
I stirred 'cause you were beside me
And I thought about cars in garages
I thought about discovery
All kinds of ways to fall asleep
All kinds of ways to fall asleep
I put whiskey in the lemonade
Hoping that you'd stay
I played Death Cab For Cutie
So we could sing our pain away
But you don't like that song
You don't like that song, do you?
You don't like that song
You don't like that song anymore, do you?
I fell asleep at two-fifteen
After telling you to think about it
But we had bad, bad dreams
They were all about our old life
They were all about our old life
I woke up at six
And the streetcars sounded like horses
It's been a long time since
I've been out of this city
I can't remember real horses
I put on Death Cab For Cutie
Hoping we could sing away
There's whiskey in the lemonade
Have a drink; will you stay?
But you don't like the taste
You don't like the taste, do you?You don't like the taste
You don't like the taste anymore, do you?
There's whiskey in the lemonade
But you don't like the taste
No, you don't like the taste
