2001-11-08 || 11:17 a.m.

|| weak-kneed. ||

for the record i do not possess the courage of my convictions.

i think that's what i am trying to say.

for the record i am so very tired, past the point of caffeine and sugar and silvery energy drinks. i want to curl up and think about the dream last night where i am caught inside excel spreadsheets. i wake up and he is kissing me but the spreadsheets are still there and i am checking off each cell with each kiss row 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34. and he is angles and heat, square roots and function key shortcuts, and all the numbers go flying off the pages.

for the record this is supposed to be a secret because it has been announced resolutely time and again in phone conversations and stern talks to myself while brushing my teeth that this sort of thing is not supposed to happen anymore. at least not in the month of november.

for the record the novel was to be fuelled by sexual frustration and brilliant writing ideas saved in hardbound books. i fear i will sit down to write and the words will go soft and i will be unable to grab them and type them down.

for the record i don't believe this any more than you do. six days does not equal frustration. longing perhaps. a brief call for change of plans. the faintest sign that yes, i am in control. yes, i deserve better than this.

but we're set up on some invisible network, all wires and flashing lights and hot fuses, and it's so much easier to not fight it and smile sheepishly and turn off all the warning alarms that are telling me to get the hell out.

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