My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

Last night, with the upcoming trache change and all, I decided to go for my thirteenth tattoo. I’m really into Elliott Smith, I think his music is some of the truest, most honest music ever written. Astonishingly sad, but honest. I’d wanted an Elliott Smith tattoo for some time, I just needed a proper idea. The idea came to me after Pitseleh came up in my shuffle a few weeks ago…

The song is perfect, and it describes exactly how I feel about myself. I fucked things up with Sara, can’t change it, can’t go back. I just totally fucked up, and I wanted to note my mistake, wanted something to externalize it. So, here we are…

So, in the morning I’m going for my monthly trache change, and I feel oddly indifferent. I’m not nervous right now, which could change, but for the moment I’m just indifferent. I feel really weird not talking to Sara, not before, or after, provided that there is an after. I mean, there usually is, but nothing’s particularly certain. It’s odd letting go of her, more odd than letting go of my voice, or the hot cocoa I used to sip so fondly. It’s odd wanting other things too.

I also got my thirteenth tattoo tonight, which I’ll write of tomorrow, unless something stupid happens.

So, I’ve picked up more new art… My friend, Sarah, actually painted it. Not Sara, but Sarah.

Well, I’m bidding farewell to Ativan, and possibly greeting once again my former lover, Insomnia. The Ativan is starting to, as expected, lose its effectiveness. It could also be adding to my spectacular depression.

So, I’m going to save my drug fixes for trache changes and find a better way to sleep.

I have some new wall-art that I rather enjoy. I’ve been chatting with a fellow blogger who’s also an excellent artist, so I picked up a few of her prints from her deviant art gallery.

Lisa, Seated

Lampshade

Crystals 3

I think they fit the melancholy of the room nicely.

So, I’m leaving Quantum of Solace, which wasn’t good or bad enough to write about, so I won’t.

Anyway, my brother and I are on our way out when I look over and see a beautiful girl, about my age, with long red hair, in a black wheelchair. I don’t see many chair people out, but that’s not what strikes me about her. I’d have noticed her anyway, the look on her face. Still, she’s being pushed in her chair, and she looks so down, so alone in such a crowded lobby. She looks on the outside how I feel on the inside nearly all the time. I want to stop and say something, anything, but I don’t, spontaneous conversation kind of lost to me.

I’ll never see her again, never know her story. It’s a weird feeling, but not uncommon.

Lately, it may or may not be obvious, I’ve been pretty down. It’s probably the longest I’ve ever been this dark, and though the rational part of me still exists, I just can’t make it stop. The rational me isn’t loud enough, the poor fellow’s nailed to a cross in a field of poppies, being taunted by a creepy girl. He’s been locked inside a Heart Shaped Box.

Thinking along these lines, I went today for my twelfth tattoo.

Not every tattoo is an etching of hope, but they all mark something significant for me. So, no matter how bad I feel right now, whether or not it stops, it’s very real, and noted.

Whenever everybody says, “Oh my God, you have to check out X right now! It’s so amazing!” my immediate impulse is usually to avoid X. I still refuse to read The DaVinci Code. Still, I’m also often totally wrong too, wrong and late for the party. I was completely wrong about Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog, wrong about Pushing Daisies, and definitely completely wrong about Pandora.

I admit my wrongs.

Anyone can join, but I’d especially like people in or around Tampa to join my Twitter feed.

Note: Saying “fuck you” to someone you love is the worst possible thing to do in any situation.