June Bug

I think I am ill in the brain. Or possibly poisoned from the paint fumes.

My mother decided tonight was the perfect evening to go about painting the upstairs bathroom, so I've been in a tiny cubicle of a room priming, re-priming, and painting for the last 6 hours. And sweating, and getting paint on every exposed surface on my body, including UP my nose.
Yeah, I don't know either.
My brain is addled by the fumes and my entire body aches. Painting is just full of awkward positions - and not in the good entertaining way. In the ouch I've never felt that muscle before way. Which means tomorrow, I will be sore in places I've never experienced conscious sensation in before. Should be bracing!

Good thing too, because I've got to wake up at 7:30am to help my mother find the sprinkler heads in our lawn so when the thatcher comes tomorrow, he won't uproot the whole system.

This is why being at home is like being sucked into a black hole of very foreboding suburban banality. I feel like at any minute I will start finding dead bodies under floorboards, or be recruited into a cult by my oppressively friendly neighbors.
Actually, no. None of these things will happen. Because nothing new or interesting EVER HAPPENS HERE.

Well unless you count the haircut I got today. From the ex-boyfriend, italics intended, whose presence always sends me into a cataclysmic spiral of both joy and doubt, second guessing every decision I've ever made since I was 15 years old.
But to be fair, I would hardly call that new :) and therefore I'm sure no one would find it interesting.
I mean except me. I of course am endlessly fascinated by myself. I could hardly call myself a suburban white middle-class college graduate in my early 20's without believing my life to be the most complicated conflicted confusing thing on the planet. I would shock you with the intimate details I am privy to. It's a virtual circus of emotional pathology. Lions, Tigers, and Bears (you decide what those correlate to, I'm too exhausted to be researched).

I've been in a daze since seeing the ex, whom I was very happy to see but was not expecting to be so thrown from the whole encounter. It's not like we're on the path for reconciliation or anything, there couldn't be more reasons why that is NOT going to happen, but every time I see him I'm reminded of what it felt like to love him and that always throws me for a loop.

I know I should be really proud of myself for the progress I've made. I'm in a new relationship with a patient and understanding man who brings warmth, affection and stability into my life AND in turn not putting him up on some insane pedestal and setting up unreal expectations for either of us. Seriously, I wasn't really sure I was capable of that. I mean it hasn't even been 3 months so, I really shouldn't say this yet since I'll undoubtedly fuck it up, but this could possibly be the most healthy relationship I've ever been in.

Regardless of this, the memories of that consuming, forever fluctuating, breathless, euphoric, addictive, often torturous love that I felt before are so seductive. I feel like a new patient on Lithium, longing after mania. It's just foolishness. I really thought that I would never be capable of feeling secure and fulfilled in a relationship and it turns out that I am and that has made me so indescribably content.

But oh sometimes, I miss being foolish. Being smart sucks all of the romance out of everything, the fantasy, the drama, the poetry, the sensuality, what I had always thought of as beautiful.

If we are going to raise our children on fairytales then we should stick with the originals - I would have had much more realistic and informed expectations about falling in love if the Little Mermaid had ended up alone and offed herself at the end of the movie. I would have been traumatized possibly, but I ended up that way eventually in any case, so it hardly saved me any pain in the end.

Anyway, like I said. Paint fumes.