This weekend involved a(nother) trip to visit my friends. I’ve been stealth style worried about when the wear and give of travel would rear its sulking skull and leer at me introvertedly. I’ve been stealth style worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep up, that I would have to forgo visits, and me not traveling to them would mean I just didn’t see them again. I’ve let that stealth chip at my eagerness and nurse off my fatigue. I’ve let it meander into side eye and sadness.
Granted, my sugars are a pile of lard dipped dongs, I drove home and then worked till 10pm, and am having a hard time remembering where I parked twenty minutes ago, so my ability to accurately say anything about sadness is probably null.
A lot of this goes back to my stress around unbalanced relationships, where one person does the ‘work’ until they can’t anymore and everything explodes in a fleshy catastrophe of hurt and resentment. I’ve yet to see an unbalanced relationship do anything other than smear borderline abusive and often passive aggressive expectations all over what was probably at some point an almost decent chemistry. My own experiences with that type of relationship are all, of course, unmitigated sloppy-fuck-monsoons tied to a budget float in the first ever parade for toenails. The catastrophe is so consistently thorough in my history book, that I now tend to walk off at first whiff of disregard. I’ve made exceptions, but that boundary has quickly become one of my steadiest.
I don’t even know what I’m whining about on here. The friend that I stay with is lovely. Her whole family is. I don’t feel unbalanced. Maybe I’m stunned? Maybe the stench of my memories is louder than the iris of my present. Maybe I need to go to bed and get sleep so I don’t shed my skin like the satan-laden vampire snake-bat (snat) I truly am.