Thursday, April 16, 2009

I lied

about the feelings.  Where else do they have to go?  To get them out of me I've got to tell you fine people.  Even if some of you are not so fine, and not so much people I want to tell.  This cannot for me be a hole carved into a tree, a secret whispered into it, covered up with mud forever.  I am not unless I am connected to another, whoever, so.

I still get my nicotine but my body misses the specifics, I think, of the brand I gave up a week ago, the $6.12-a-pack "addiction punishment" price drove me away.  I like the activity of rolling, now, the craft of it, the simple origami.  I like the taste that doesn't leave me nauseous.  I can never spell "nauseous" on the first try.  Anyway, I keep trying to explain to people that I think I'm detoxing from a few years' buildup of whatever was in the old ones.  I'm off.  
I seem to be mired on a surliness of disposition which I am loathe to impart onto others.  There is an ache in my back from sitting too long in my kitchen.  There are the regular down feelings that trail me always (futility of future, boredom) that drag away my desired veneer of joy.  Every day it seems some corporate giant demands money from me, there are these demands of me, this feeling of failure.  There are gnawing feelings that any pleasure I feel is undeserved, and I'm slowly running myself down to nothing instead of building upwards towards "something," like my Little Honda, dented and scarred and robbed and never destined for repair.  There is longing, and frustration, which used to make me seem more alive but now aches like an old wound that I won't allow to heal.  There is my body, my goddamn body.  
It is not really a big deal, but the strange new chemical-less me feels these blades of annoyance more deeply.  This is how I'm feeling.  I will be optimistic soon.

Yesterday a rotten, sweet smell seemed to follow me everywhere.  One week ago I ate a pear in class and put the core in an unsealed plastic bag in my backpack.  I found it today.  This leaves me feeling as though I have more rotting things to discover and purge, not literal things, but you know like how you have a worsening headache for days and start hallucinating deep voices saying your name and then discover a carbon monoxide leak.  This gas leak is hypothetical.  Undiscovered issues, unresolved.  You know.
I have a strange relationship with my intoxicants, as I wish to blame them wholly but also require them to combat the boredom.  When will it be summer?


My NPR Name is Sajrah Rhinecliff.  I had to go with the smallest town I've visited in the U.S.  It is actually a "hamlet."         

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

once an entire banana rotted to mush in my backpack!
-r

Dan said...

Who is this?

hedonista said...

Hi, my name is Sarah J Pollard