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July 29, 2012

Dear Dairy I'm still seeing the blonde more than ever. And it's becoming tense and anguished like all my other romantic relationships, many times on the verge of exploding, only sex keeping it held together.
The reason for our fight today is irrelevant. Writing about it would provide a sort of stress relief, but what about all the other fights, what about the future fights?
The point is that we aggravated each other, and it ended with her slamming the car door, and with me watching the blonde disappear in my sideview mirror, and with me feeling an impotent rage, wanting to cry and punch someone at the same time. I was fortunate that my NY bro picked up when I called him. I talked to him about the impotent rage, about how I yearned for fat girls with big tits, but yet felt stuck in this situation, of wanting to remain faithful to someone who won't even consider me her mate, while still feeling the pressure of her jealousy and desire for me. He said I should go anywhere, to a show tonight, but in my codependent relationship, I don't want to go many places without her. I wandered down West Portal to look for an SF Weekly or an internet connection, to see if anything was going on tonight, though I didn't really want to go to anything. Some show at DNA. I went back to my car. Sat there a bit, watched my phone charge, went to the nearby mall. Tried to use the bathroom.
These relationships always save me from the pervasive loneliness of my life. In terms of my personal fulfillment and my productivity, nothing is ever really "good" for any sort of extended time period. I'm always entering these situations from what feels like nothing, and it provides meaning to me, an escape from that house and my mother, who I want to love but fear too much. The ammonia in the air, the mold on the walls, the ceiling's inevitable cave-in. Broken glass, broken walls.

I didn't want to go anywhere, but I didn't want to see the girl, either.
So I decided on limbo, on the gray area, the in-between area. I would go home, retrieve my MacBook Pro, and use it somewhere, for anything. To search for the classes I need before August 1, to make music, and maybe do none of those things. I just wanted to be somewhere else until darkness fell. So that when I finally went back to that house, it would be to rest as opposed to spin in patterns that feel endless and equally, endlessly pointless.

I used the bathroom at home, but was still uncomfortable afterwards. I had to shower of course. I feel that I am following in the footsteps of my incontinent mother, my days being controlled by whatever fucking thing is eating away at my insides. The thing that makes people wonder what's wrong with me. The thing that makes me wonder the same. The thing that keeps me anchored in that place.

I have heard that people with obsessive-compulsive disorder personify their illness. I never particularly identified with that. But I did find today that I do personify something. It is the house. The house is an enormous tumor that lives on my mother. It nurtures and intimidates me. As I prepared to leave with my computer, my energy level fell, and by the time I was in the car, I felt heavy in weight and drained of my energy. Each arm pulled me deeper into the car's seat. The simple thing ahead of me, going to a coffee shop, seemed enormously difficult and pointless.

And I was reminded of why I do not always go to a coffee shop, because when I do, there are people, and I always imagine going through the front door and finding no seat, and ending up nowhere. I found a seat, across from someone, and felt ridiculous setting up in front of her, on the spot. And I don't think there is anywhere to go from here. I am drained by the blonde, by myself, by the house. I wish for all problems to be solved. To have a relationship that is not mired in this drag. This dragging down of each other. I distrust her. I look for problems to have. She seeks affection with none of the responsibility. She looks to run away the more I talk. The more I talk, the more abusive she thinks I am. Maybe she is right. Another girl. More self-loathing. Nowhere to go. Only to where I was.