needily nauseated

sick sick sick sick sick. and sick of being sick. i asked her to find a way to fix it. anything, anyway. i'm just tired of feeling like this, for me for him for her. for my messy, muddled apartment. for all the things that should have been long done.
i'm ready for a good five minutes of feeling fine, not needing to shove my face in the shitter and retch. i'm ready for a new phase, and i'm oddly disturbed by my intolerance. those second-order desires again. i want to want to be.
the scrap in the mail claims i owe so much, too much. i don't know how i'll ever crawl back out of my indebted hole. sell my soul, most likely. if i had a dollar, i would buy a powerball ticket, a numbered shred of hope.
the m word passed my lips and i didn't faint, he didn't cringe, the earth did not suddenly and raucously split in two. he didn't disapparate before my eyes or even seem inclined to. not that anything would have been before my eyes; i couldn't force myself to turn and face him. i spoke cowardly to my hands.
he is being good to me in spite of it all and it makes me love him even harder, which is tough to handle when pressing your lips against another's causes churning in your gut.
i was a ninja last night and a good one. lithe and limber, i leapt nimbly around my opponents, my large sword slicing the air, my legs rapidly and gracefully leaving and meeting the ground. and i looked hella good in my little black suit. dreamy me.
his comment yesterday, combined with his grating snicker, sliced through me. the samurai sword of his nasty, vulgar words collapsed me. as if i weren't worried enough without degrading remarks from hypersexualized men my father's age. i wanted to slice him back as brazenly, wanted to remark on his fatness, his baldness, the way he smells so incredibly wretched that his simply leaning on my bed is enough to make me scramble for clean sheets. but it would have been destructive. so i swallowed. lack of money and absent alternatives motivate incredible endurance.
his plea crawls up my spine. i know the cycle and i need him to be ok. if i can be helpful to him, he only needs to ask. he should know that. and that i love him.
she changed it to firranch79, which makes me think that there was something about that time that she loved, something pre-me, pre-him, pre-surgery. something that they shared that she treasured, something that she hasn't entirely lost, bitter and wasted as she now routinely seems. fir ranch must have meant something i've never known in her. i wonder if she looks at the sepia pictures in her yellow albums and wanders wistfully back to that time, no water, no electricity, shotgun by the door to protect her against bears when he'd left her alone. i wonder if she wishes she'd stopped after him, if she regrets me, him, him, him, her, him, him and her. i wonder if she wishes things could have stayed the same between them, if she pines for days of just them minus the alcohol problems, young, subversive and totally in love. so much has happened since then: surgery and jail time and psych wards and lost jobs and many children and abandoned dreams and lots of loans and bootstrap pulling and disability checks and lawsuits and adult children who grow up and totter away to resent you from afar. so much has ruined whatever existed then with shona and bear and little butt and fresh, forested love. i wonder how it feels for her to type 79 and trip along all the closed roads since then.
like it might someday feel for me to type 96. or 03.
water has me queasy. how's this kid supposed to live?