LustingforNightmares

tumbleweed
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2021-06-19 22:08:13 (UTC)

post-grocery store (pre-taking out the trash)

"Chicken" by Parannoul

June 19, 2021 Saturday 10:08 PM

"Sandy says—put your head in cold water." Sometimes my dad sounds like a child when he talks. "Remember Sandy?"
"Yes, I do." She's the one with the chronic migraines. Like, the debilitating sort, much worse than mine. My head was lolled back into the dining room chair, because I've been nursing a headache and it makes me tired.
"She says put your head in coooold water."

---

The lady at the grocery store might've (possibly) thought I was headed out for a great Saturday night, what with the Yuengling Lager (for my dad) and the Mike's Hard Lemonade (for my mom). The cross-section of my cart is actually probably not very clear—cherries, eggs, yogurt, paper towels...—seems a lot less Saturday night. So nevermind.

I got caught in the rain today. It cured my headache for a short time. It stopped hours ago, but just now, on the drive back from the grocery store, I saw the steam rising into fog from the asphalt, passing in and out of my brights. Before it rained, I went for a run and it felt sort of like I was breathing in water. That's very "home" to me—the heaviness of the air, that is. It's always raining up here.

I was kind of bored today—I'm kind of tired. Maybe I'll go to sleep. The things are starting to pile up, but that's okay—that's for tomorrow. I want a little comfort. Not sure why. Maybe for old stuff that I don't feel like talking about. Smiled when I remembered, all the small hurts that are not as romantic as the ones I choose to document. There's a lot of tiny things, horrifying and shameful moments that I won't talk about. And sometimes I can taste their vapor, flavor—like someone's mouth breathing into mine. Not necessarily a bad thing. Whether it is "good" or "bad" is contingent upon the memory to which it is attached.

So when I get that home taste in my mouth— Like. Okay. I saw Olivia a couple of days ago and it was so nice (Olivia having been my best friend in high school—probably the first close friend I'd ever made that wasn't just... dependent on proximity). But when I woke up the next day, I felt the bruisey damage on my brain, the way any social interaction leaves a fingerprint on me— I wish I could better describe what it was I felt in my mouth. You know, besides the dry-mouth hangover tang. There was something so... unique to that.

And to the way I used to wake up in high school on the weekends and Olivia and I would sit on the couch together, usually doing nothing. Sometimes it was fine, and other times her presence made me inexplicably angry and ashamed.

An open-space, a circulating air, not sour. Ugh, I know I'm getting my senses all messed up, but the best I can describe the taste is—orange. Sunset orange. But with a very low opacity.

That's all. I was just thinking, ah, you know—I don't know what I am running away from right now. A thought. An intimacy. But it's okay, because I've weighed the options, and facing the problem is more trouble than it's worth. Really. I can't chase every dust bunny into a corner (there was a bunny in the road and I was so scared I would hit him! But he ran away, luckily. I also saw a smashed squirrel).


Mmm. I'm so sleepy. Okay night!


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