windwiggler

Susan Miller Did Not Address This In My May Horoscope

2010-11-17T20:04:00.001-08:00

I keep checking my messages.

Sometimes, I read my horoscope more than I read the news.

I stared at myself in the mirror naked yesterday for 30 minutes,

And wondered if there was something you hadn’t liked.

I read my horoscope more than I read the news.

I dreamt that every time I touched you, you started convulsing.

And wondered if there was something you hadn’t liked.

I want someone to tell me what this means.

I dreamt that every time I touched you, you started convulsing.

I read once the objective of the tongue is to get to the other side.

I want someone to tell me what this means.

I want my tongue to get to the other side.

I read once the objective of the tongue is to get to the other side.

I stared at myself in the mirror naked yesterday for 30 minutes.

I want my tongue to get to the other side.

I keep checking my messages.

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I wrote this in May, but the same feeling is creeping up again in November.

I would like to find an apartment soon.

2010-10-13T22:41:00.000-07:00

His hands are rough and cracked.

And all I can think about is houses.

The next morning my bra smells of beer.

Walking through apartment complexes, I worry

That the nice man, who gets uneasy when I ask

Why the last tenants left,

Is judging my appearance.

Noting that my hair is up because I vomited in the

CVS parking lot that morning.

I take a nap in my car, and wake up

To a homeless man tapping on my window.

Asking if I have any change.

A boy keeps texting me that he wants to see me

And that he misses me.

But all I can think about is houses.

Slew of random things.

2010-10-13T22:38:00.000-07:00

I gave up on this a bit ago, but a friend today mentioned they read some of the posts here, and I've decided to revisit it. I deleted all the serious stories off of here, because I'm trying to send out more things to be published by more serious ventures. But in the meantime, I'm going to post some random not so serious things I've written since my departure from blog, and of course my probably random dreams I have.

My cat is the only man for me.

2010-06-18T13:11:00.001-07:00

“I didn’t fuck her.”

Her eyes were no longer fixated on him but instead on the cat, which had begun to rub against the side couch vigorously. Her eyes followed him in his swift motion.

“Did you hear me? I didn’t fuck her. Say something.”

She looked up at him and then returned to the cat. He was now rolling around on the floor violently, but still paying close attention to rubbing at his neck.

Keith grabbed her now and pulled her attention to him. Keith had begun working at a new company with a new coworker; a coworker who had long legs and big breasts, and called him late at night.

There was a slight edge formed by the leg of the chair. The cat had discovered this edge and was edging himself along it.

“Why are you acting like this, can’t you even talk to me?”

She began to realize what the cat was doing. A got up quickly to stop him. But he ran behind the couch. Keith had begun to pace. She got down on her knees to grab the cat while he proceeded to rub against the plug in the outlet. She hummed and purred at him, and he’d come close to her and then realize her intentions and retreat.

“Why are you acting like such a child? Leave the goddamn cat alone and talk to me!”

Keith had begun slamming down items in their apartment. She turned to watch as he tossed one of her cookbooks across the room. It fell violently near the entrance of the back of the couch. The cat shuttered with fear and ran out behind the couch back to the carpet.

Keith was now sitting, his head in his knees. She saw the cat return to edge of the chair. He spotted her eyes lingering on him and contemplated his escape. The cat began to inch forward. She lunged at him as he advanced to fast run. Grabbing him by the tail, dragging him back to her.

“Fine I did fuck her.”

But it was too late; he had already ripped off his collar.

Waiting makes me question my own self-worth

2010-06-08T17:35:00.000-07:00

I've been getting terrible bug bites

In awkward places.

I think my bed has an infestation.

I spent over 2 hours deciding to text you.

Now I've spent over 5 hours waiting

For you to text back.

And scratching my upper thigh.

Sometimes I think I'd rather just be a cat lady.

This is no longer serious venture, this was never a serious venture.

2010-05-20T13:28:00.000-07:00

I had a strange dream last night. I dreamed that I was having a lengthy conversation my anthropology professor who is a small, old, jewish lady that lives in Berkeley and relates almost all things to male-male competition. In her mind, men are always showing their off their equipment in order to acquire as many mates a possible. In my dream, she was extremely shocked and disappointed when I told her about how little experience I have with relationships and sex, almost to the point of disgust. Then, she went on to tell me about how Genghis Khan was the posterchild of reproductive success, and told me I should aspire to be like him.

I woke feeling sad and disappointed. I feel like I only write about my dreams on here now. While I'm in the computer lab at school. Maybe though, my mother is right and I should join a dating site. Or maybe, I should post a missed connection for the boy across the room, who has bought paint from me before. I keep looking past the computer screen at him. I think he can feel me watching him. I think I won't join any of those sites, and I won't post on CL. Beside the obvious ridiculousness of such ventures, I think I enjoy being a creep, and watching from afar. I think boredom brings out the worst in me.

I'm glad no one reads this.

Titular?

2010-04-25T21:00:00.000-07:00

I story of mine was just posted on titular journal. It's called Good Times. An earlier version was on here, but I deleted it because why read it on this silly old thing when you can read it on there?

http://titular-journal.com/television/good-times/

I think only one persons reads this and they never comment.

2010-04-15T12:53:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that I had gotten lost finding my car in the parking lot of target, except the parking lot did not look like the parking lot of target. Instead, it resembled more one of those big stadium parking lots, where everyone sounds their alarm to find their cars. But, I couldn't recognize my alarm from the other alarms and had walked too far into the garage.
I saw this really gorgeous guy who I sometimes see while walking around DVC, who has long hair and a mustache. He came up to me and asked me if I had surgery that day because I looked bloated. I told him, I did not have surgery and then felt sad because I didn't imagine him finding bloated attractive. He said that he was happy I looked bloated because then we could wrestle. And this time I knew what he meant by wrestle and told him we should. He tackled me into the bushes, and I kept wanting him to kiss me. Just as I thought he might, the target security guard came over and told me they found my car.
Then I'm in Oakland and I'm with friends at some parking lot. And there is this boy I have met a few times there who I am attracted to but feel silly about being attracted to because I think he is too pretty for me to find him attractive. Everyone is buying more alcohol and he asks me if I want him to push me in a shopping cart. I tell him yes, and we go very fast and this time he doesn't lose control of the cart and I don't fall out.
I'm at a friends house but it doesn't look like a friend's house instead it looks like my grandparents old house where I use to spend weekends when I was little. We are laying on the bed, and I tell him that I am tired. He lets me rest my head on this shoulder, and puts his arm around me. I want him to kiss me, but instead he just holds my hand, until he has to drive home.
I feel like even in my dreams,
I can't get you to kiss me.
The "you" is illusive.
I don't know who I want to kiss me.
The other night someone told me
they wanted to kiss me.
I laughed.
I spent the rest of the night texting people
that I didn't want to have sex with them.
I'm illusive.
Maybe I do know who
I want to kiss.
Maybe I just want to kiss strangers.

Sorry, I'm an uncomfortable person

2010-04-08T21:09:00.001-07:00

I’ve been looking up apartments

In places I don’t live.

But could possibly live in

Soon.

But probably not in those apartments

I still feel uncomfortable around you.

Like I need to watch what I say, because

I don’t want you to think that

I like you.

And I don’t want you to think that

I don’t like you.

I’m sorry that I told that

You come on too strong

And I don’t like it.

Because, I had let you think that

I like it.

But I don’t like it.

I’ve been avoiding strangers

That look like you.

I lied when I told you I thought

I was texting someone else.

I knew I was texting you.

Last night you got real drunk

And told me how girls

Never like you when

You like them.

It made me uncomfortable,

Because

I didn’t like you

When you liked me.

Maybe you’re right you won’t ever

Meet a nice boy at a party

But maybe you won’t meet a nice girl either.

We’re all assholes.

And it’s making me feel a lot more

Comfortable.

I don't remember applying to college being this difficult

2010-03-29T20:50:00.000-07:00

I’m starting to feel like I will never transfer.

I will be stuck in community college for the

rest of my life.

I will become one of those middle-age mothers

Who flirts with the all the just-graduated

Teenage boys.

Or worse, the one tries to have meaningful conversations with

The professor who always seems more than

slightly annoyed.

I've been going on facebook too much lately.

2010-03-16T17:18:00.000-07:00

I’m looking at your facebook too much.

I wonder if you know

how many times I’ve looked at your facebook.

I’m going to stop looking at your facebook.

Instead I will only look at stranger’s facebooks.

I like to read about and look at strangers.

Everything is so foreign.

I wonder if strangers look at my facebook.

I wonder about these strangers and the impression they get from the internet me.

I start looking at my facebook,

I change my information.

I look through all my pictures.

I decide I’m really not photogenic.

I think about untagging all the unattractive pictures of myself.

I decide that people should see all the unattractive pictures of me with all the attractive pictures of me.

Even if there are more unattractive pictures than attractive.

I decide I am more unattractive than attractive.

I start to look at certain stranger’s facebooks more than other strangers.

I track their lives, their internet lives.

Sometimes I meet these people in real life

and feel uncomfortable because I already know so much about them

But then someone tells me they’ve seen me on facebook

Or mention something I’ve said on the internet

And I feel better.

I decide that facebook’s main function is stalking

I wonder if you ever look at my facebook,

If you stalk people on facebook.

I wish that you did so I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable for looking at your facebook.

But you probably don’t.

I think about deleting my facebook.

But I decided I’m okay with being a stalker,

And I like the idea of some stranger stalking me.

Not so fictitious

2010-02-25T18:32:00.000-08:00

My body is starting to hate me. It's revolting against my sleep patterns and dietary habits. Sometimes I gorge myself on fast food, others I skip meals entirely and instead drink coffee. I can feel my body reacting, especially while in the shower. The hot water and steam engulf. I become light-headed; dizzy. There is too much motion. On occasion, I worry that I'll collapse into the shower's enclosement. The doors would shatter; glass shards permeating my flesh. Leaving me naked, fragmented. Like a movie I once saw with Meg Ryan, where she was belligerently drunk in the shower and fell through the glass. But she was an alcoholic, and I only drink on weekends.

An old man called me an exotic beauty the other day while I helped him pick out flowers.

2010-01-20T21:43:00.000-08:00

You were an exotic beauty. Your dark hair had flowed to your waist. Your green eyes glittered against the wine stain of your pout. And you walked in that way beautiful girls walked. But one day you woke up and you couldn’t see. And the doctors didn’t know what was wrong so they did tests; lots of tests. And then medications. But the medications kept you from sleeping, so they gave you medications for the medications. But those made you nauseous, so they gave you more medications for those medications.

A year past before you could see again. Your feet had become so swollen that you couldn’t walk. And one day you look in the mirror and all you see is a whisper of exoticism in a sullen face. Your cheekbones part plumped and sunken. Your eyes and skin yellowing against the brown drab of your mouth. You were an exotic beauty.

The Colors

2010-01-20T21:34:00.000-08:00

She met him on the third day of September. Olivia had decided she would only sleep with men who were talented. Upon meeting him she had asked if he was married. He replied, “I don’t believe in the institution of marriage but my wife does.” She giggled in agreement. Olivia was only 22, and prided herself on the principle that she did not believe in monogamy.

She was seeing a few guys at the time. A pastry chef in SoHo. A musician from Brooklyn. A film student at NYU. But Harry was a professor of Philosophy at Columbia and he lived uptown. He was horribly conceptual and recited Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, and Voltaire. She began to cancel her other dates because she liked the way he touched her, as if she was uncharted land. In which, he settled in quiet, carefully.

She was working odd-end jobs to pay the rent. She had once been a student. She had taken a few courses at a local community college, but had found herself more interested by romantic pursuits than academic ones. Taking notes of the star pupils, they became important in their ability to gage the classroom. These important men made her feel important. Harry made her feel important.

He took her to restaurants with rolled meats, and foreign sauces, and talked about Marx and existentialism. He was writing a book. He told her he had played around with his own theories of free will and objectivism for a while but nothing had clicked. Since meeting her, he said, he’s been inspired. His wife worked in advertising and took long business trips. Olivia would spend weeks at a time in his high-rise Manhattan loft with him, playing wife. She began to stop seeing other men all together.

Christmas was approaching. But Christmas didn’t mean as much when you’re seeing a married man. In between Christmas shopping and his wife’s company get together, he and Olivia slipped away for the weekend. Harry drove her upstate and she looked at the lights. The colors excited her. She liked how little people there were. Harry told her that he enjoyed upstate New York for its plainness and simplicity. He told her, upstate New York reminded him of her. She smiled when he said this, because recently she had prided herself on being simple and not complicating her life with too many men.

Olivia lived in a small one-bedroom studio next to the subway station. She didn't sleep well. She had trouble sleeping alone. Her cabinets would shake and hum at the trains passed. The lights left a yellow glow in the room. Loud cries of travelers filled the four walls, echoing across themselves. The pattering of the engine, as it screamed onto the platform. But the noise wasn't what kept her awake, it was the quiet that filled the apartment between trains. During the chaotic passage of rail, she wasn't alone. She took sleeping pills, and left the TV on loud, so it felt like there was just someone on the other side of the room.

He spent Christmas with his family. She spent it alone drinking eggnog, heavy on the rum. The cold had taken her by surprise, and her heater wasn’t working. It was the first year she’d spent the holidays alone since she moved to New York. Years past spent with boyfriends, and boyfriends’ families. Her own family was back in San Diego, where it never snowed. Her mother, who had called weeks ago telling her to come home, asked, “Oh are you spending Christmas with your new boyfriend?” She began to hold off on the eggnog and started in solely on the rum. Waking the next morning at the edge of her toilet. Her hair matted in dried vomit. But it was the first night she had slept through in a while

He called her that morning. “My wife’s out paying homage to capitalism. Come over?”

Her temple still pounded in pain, and her stomach still trembled. “I don’t think I could manage the subway or sitting in cab right now. I feel a bit ill, but you should come over here.”
“I am ill at these numbers.”

She told him she didn’t understand, and he told her he’d see her another time.

Harry rarely visited her apartment. He didn’t like Bushwick; too many pseudo-creative types. He believed the youth offered no new forms of expressionism because they had not experienced the world the way his generation had. She had not experienced the world the way he had.

She only saw him when his wife was away now. At his apartment. She would make dinner and he would undress her. Watching her body with unwavering wonder. Following her contours. Pressing himself onto her. She felt safe in his grasp and drifted off without worry.

One morning in his loft, she rose from his bed naked and happy. She stood before him bare. “Read me something.” She motioned towards the collection of books on his nightstand. He took a book from the dresser and leafed through the pages. His eyes followed her body and then paused. He called out to her, “"Candide, that tender lover, seeing his fair Cunégonde sunburned, blear-eyed, flat-breasted, with wrinkles around her eyes and red, chapped arms, recoiled three paces in horror, and then advanced from mere politeness.” She smiled anxiously and slipped back into the blankets. Her body concealed.

Spring came and he began to call her less and less. He said he was busy, with his work, with his book, with his wife. He told her, she was becoming too needy, that he felt she was acting like his other wife. She spent her days waning off the feeling of insomnia. She lost her job. Her parents now paid her way like she was small child again. Her mother called too often now. Asking too many questions about her new boyfriend. Questions she never knew the answers to. She decided to busy herself, and tried reading all of his favorite authors, but grew weary and tired. She stopped eating.

It was April, and he had finished his book. She asked to read it but he told her it was a dense read and she shouldn’t worry herself with it. When they had sex, he complained she was too thin. She had become transparent; light and colors shined through her. He made excuses to take her home after he finished.

Sleep was a daunting task. When she did fall asleep, she would wake up bawling. Eyes burning, she would become short of breath. Her chest would tighten as if someone was pushing her ribcage together. And a knot would form in her stomach. Unable to breath, she would dry heave until the lack of oxygen would eventually cause her to lose consciousness again.

A doctor told her "anxiety attacks are common in cases of addiction."

"Addiction?"

"To sleeping medication. You are abusing sleeping medication."

He gave her a prescription for a detox pill, and after talking to her some more prescribed her with depression, so he also wrote a prescription for anti depressants.

She found out from a friend that he was seeing someone else, a rhetoric major in one of his classes. One night, depressed on whiskey and prozac she called his house phone. Asked him if he loved her. He told her “The love that lasts the longest is the love that is never returned.” She felt like shit in the morning. Oh, but the colors.