Repeat. Repeat. Repeat...

I know that I have mentioned before the importance and significance of hand-holding, at least to me. It disgusts me when I see it only because I see it as a sign of happiness in love. Unhappy couples don't hold hands. Jubilant, love-electrocuted folks lace fingers. When will this happen? My hands do not seem equipped for holding.

(Can I mention the oddity of the conversation I am overhearing? It seems to be a tutoring session involving algebra word-problems.  This particular one involves plotting consumption of hamburgers and marginal utility.)

There is this mythological hero that I have. He's really great. And someday, unexpectedly, he's going to hold my hand, and have a picnic with sandwiches and ants. The ants are okay, they just want to picnic also. It will feel right, and we will go whale watching (to prove whales exist. I am skeptical.), and collect important things. I suspect he will look good in any light. And he will even like my feet. And he wont make me swim. Ever. He will also know when I'm joking, and when to laugh at me. We will take each other as seriously as we should, and live a harmonious co-existance. Raunchily, I would hope he understands my sex-drive. So, darling, I know you exist, and please know that I also exist and have discovered your presence in this universe. (It is important to distinguish among universes, because in one, we are already together. In another we are both dead. In yet another, he doesn't know I exist. IN a possible other, we are interspecies- Groundhog and Lobster, star-crossed lovers...) Most importantly, we will hold hands.

Aside from the possible innuendos and inside jokes, this music video. Makes me more cheerful. Silly.

From the overheard conversation previously introduced, I now can't stop picturing hamburgers on a graph. I will make this picture. Or try to, on my shoddy Microsoft-paint-for-Mac-freeware.

letters make words, words make phrases, phrases make phases.

I have always said, slightly in jest, "If being addicted to sleep aids is wrong, I don't want to be right." However, I am now addicted to them.  I cannot sleep without them, and I pretty much must have them in one way or another.  Sometimes I come home in the afternoon and take them, and then when I wake up, I take them again. Basically, if I have no plans, I take sleeping pills and peace out.  I need to quit, but I don't know how.  I hate sleeping without them, I have really bad dreams.  The kind where you get raped, and have your skin peeled off, or get dissected, imprisoned, starved to death, beaten, and frankly, just die.  It started with saying, these pills will prevent these bad dreams, but now, I'll take them with only one thought before hand, "Did I drink alcohol tonight? I wouldn't want to disappoint anyone if I died tonight."
Half of me is self sustaining, I consider whether or not my choices will kill me.  And I keep making plans and getting involved in things so I am continually committed to something, so I'd feel guilty if I died by accident.  And I perpetuate. But the other half just wants to go away. Somewhere where no one knows me, where no one has a story about me, where no one can laugh or insult me, or reject me, or ask anything of me ever. That is what my nights are. Little vacations. But they're just sleeping pills. 10$ for a month, 30 nights of bliss. Sometimes 36 hours, if I take two in a row.

When I die, I don't really care what happens.  But I think that will be the only time I will be ready to be forgotten.  It's my biggest fear, to be forgotten, probably why I just up an decided to become an artist one day, after I tried to die.  "Oh wait, no one even knows who I am, I better draw pictures." Thus, I'm alive. But the things that hurt me the most are the people that have forgotten me. My ego is that big.  (Actually, psychologically speaking, I think that people recognizing me is probably the only affirmation I accept. Compliments are in one ear out the other.) But when I'm gone, no more of that.  Not a funeral, not a wake, not a cremation, I want to get donated to a laboratory, where I become a specimen. A soulless number. And when the scientists are done, then I'll ascend into the sky and please the world for 24 hours as the full moon. And then I'll die again, and become a little frog.  Not a special one, but one that you might find one day while camping, and cook over a fire. Or a nine year old would take as a fling of a pet. But then I'd become more things that begin with "f." Being "A" was enough for me.

Wouldn't it be funny if I found out I was immortal? How cruel the irony if that were true.