Not Listening Today, Chaucer Teacher

Full fathom five thy father lies
We read again and again. It's haunting, barely intelligible outside of the ivory tower.  What should I do? I feel tempted to stray into intangibility, but that makes bad writing. I will not spell out my feelings in only words alone are seldom good.

Last night was hard for me. I am made of paradoxes.
Last night my heart beat fast in my chest. Do I enjoy this? Then I am a masochist.
Do I hate it? Then I cannot be enjoying life for that is painful joy and content banality, and should I chose the second then I am not living. Just existing.

My heart beat fast, regardless of my joy. It does now, and it's a light nauseating feeling. I am always pulsating with energy, sexual or sublimated, but always there if I am to feel anything. Last night I tried not to feel anything, but I have a weakness for this romantic sadness.

He laid his head on my chest.  I have another, don't I? This should not be acceptable. I feel guilt, even though I am not obligated to. I still feel obligated. He is a romantic soul. He is fallen, too, from the Eden of first love. I have yet to fall, yet here I am, encouraged by Adam with the apple in my mouth. And I want it, even while I am trying not to vomit.

What do I need to feel loved? I have attention, and I have someone who needs me and yet I do not know. Do I need this head on my should? An absent but simultaneously affectionate figure. That is the bittersweet ache I desire. Pay attention, but only long enough to leave a trace of mild interest. Talk to me about your other love, far away. I do not envy her. She does not have you, either. Hell has you. She is your lover, and this lonely freezing death is your constant companion. The leviathan has eaten you. You caress me as a shadow of what you were.

I am not bitter. I want to stand back.

Yesterday I went for a walk to Mordor, the CVS that Joe and I named in a drunken revelry. I am breaking my body. Last week I burnt my chest making bacon, and after that walked two miles in too small shoes. I needed anti-bacterial cream and bandages for less than attractive festering sores. Moving gives me the feeling of progress, of change.  It is a childish feeling of running away, and a thought that maybe, maybe this one time I won't be back. Instead, a life as a vagabond and doesn't that sound romantic? Who needs the rat race of college in Washington? It's got enough well-intentioned dolts.

I have had coffee and my facial twitches are starting. A trembling jaw, as though I am about to cry. A fist clenched because I want to lash out. No, wait, because I want to see the half-moon marks of red. The coffee made me feel sick this morning. I always know exactly what I have eaten. One waffle, a tablespoon of syrup. Dip, because it's easier and uses less syrup. Then the coffee. Well, I don't feel good, I don't want excess, I will not give in. My hunger feels like nausea. I just want to sleep, but oh this ache!

Numbers on the scale I can hardly read. 109.0. I will not be skeletal. I like no body type. Cover, cover my mistakes. Hello Kitty bandaids a the best. Much cuter than these festering accidents.