12:07 p.m. | 2004-02-08
If I Told You That My Heart Hurt Would You Kiss It And Make It Better?
Word of the Day for Sunday February 8, 2004
rapport ra-POR; ruh-, noun:
A relation, especially one characterized by sympathetic understanding, emotional affinity, or mutual trust.
Obligatory. Those have been my actions as of late. I can't exactly pin them and I can't say that's what they are, but it seems as such.
For those of you who don't know, I'm a whore. Not of the sexual nature (never really have been there) but if you need anything: I'm yours. Colin today asks for medicine, that's fine, but I don't even wait for him to offer to bring it to me--I bring it to him. It doesn't bother me, though. I care about him, so I'll do it.
When I woke up, though, I was a little bothered. I came down to see an IM from Colin and one from Ian. The one from Colin was simply, "yo." The one from Ian worried me a bit, we had been talking about taking too many pills last night and he leaves me this message at about 7:30 that says: "Lauren, if you're there, can we talk?"
One, Ian never asks if we can talk...ever. He has other people for that, people like Nick (a new friend of his who I've met once but Ian has taken a strong liking to--cool). I'm hoping he's ok. He's idle and not remote, so that means if I send him a message it'll go to his computer in his room, not where he's staying this weekend. I know he's ok--but still. Makes me worry, and I think I have reason to do that.
Ok off of the friend crap and onto some stuff that you people seem to find more entertaining (yes, I pay attention to page views and time et al).
I've been thinking of this recently, because I haven't done it yet (and we passed the museum of science yesterday). I miss the whole museum trip by myself thing. I really enjoy museums on my own, it puts me into this wonderfully deeply pensive place (especially art museums). I got a taste of it a long time ago when I went with a group, but they wanted to blast through the moderm room as I could barely walk fast enough and still keep my jaw from dragging on the ground.
I was supposed to go to the contemporary art museum (I used to drive an hour + to ours, the one here is blocks away) but it was with someone, and didn't work out. I still have to go. My heart has to be wrenched at the sadness, my eyes boggled at the sight. The last time I trult felt that was in the Chicago Art Museum--staring at a Pollack. I was...amazed. I wanted to scream and shout and cry and enjoy it for all it was worth. Why does it touch me so? How does a COMPLETELY black canvas make me feel that? It's...baffling.
Someday I'm going to paint the prettiest thing you've ever seen--beautiful--and then I'm going to cover it in black paint.
Nice thought.
For now, though, I guess I'll just have to deal. And that's what I'll do.
Signed Off--Lauren
Fuck you and your rendezvouz. Fuck you and what you did to my friends. Fuck you and who you made me. Fuck you and how you changed me. Fuck. You.
God, why then am I this weeping pile of nothingness. You call me pumpkin and I melt. Fuck you and your control. Fuck you and the way you make me weak.
I get along without you very well,
Of course I do,
Except when soft rains fall
And drip from leaves, then I recall
The thrill of being sheltered in your arms.
Of course, I do,
But I get along without you very well.
I've forgotten you just like I should,
Of course I have,
Except to hear your name,
Or someone's laugh that is the same,
But I've forgotten you just like I should.
What a guy, what a fool am I,
To think my breaking heart could kid the moon.
What's in store? Should I phone once more?
No, it's best that I stick to my tune.
I get along without you very well,
Of course I do,
Except perhaps in Spring,
But I should never think of Spring,
For that would surely break my heart in two.
Fuck you and your pretty lyrics, and the pretty tunes you used to sing to me. Fuck you and the way you treated me. Fuck you and your lies. Fuck you and your pretending. Fuck the way you touched my cheek so softly and fuck the way you looked me in the eye on that starry drive home, looking out over the city, those lights we always argued over, and told me that I was beautiful. Fuck you.
