They are the two words that encapsulate her entire existence.
They are the only two words that circle Allison's mind, over and over and over, and if she were the type to she'd sit down and put her head between her knees, she would. She doesn't. She may hate her father, but his training has applied far more to this new world of hers than she ever would have dreamed. She wouldn't be caught dead with her head between her knees by her siblings when she was younger or her roommates now. Not ever. No one was allowed to get the better of her. Not ever again.
She listens as well to 'don't worry' as he did to 'please disregard.' What did she write? Why is it she can impel whatever she wants from whatever's in front of her, but she can't force her mind to just turn up what it was. How bad. How stupid. How desperate. It's on his mirror, and she's picturing which side of the mirror for way too long without breathing.
It takes days. She puts it down. Picks it up. Puts it in her a bed table. Takes it out. Reads it more times than she'd admit even the first night. Horror sticks, but slipping out from it is the sore, sad desperation. That ache in her chest she did so well to put in the smallest box in the smallest room inside her head. The one that had somehow won out that night. On the town. Drinking a little too much celebrating her new job. Doing the stupidest thing in the entire goddamn world as her gift to herself apparently. More reasons she's never supposed to lose control of herself.
She hates herself. Tells herself it really is stupid. Tells herself to put it away. Tells herself his handwriting still looks the exact same, and somehow that only hurts more. Like everything else is still the same. Somewhere else. In the wrong 'where else. That just so happened to somehow still be the right one for him, even two years later. She still hates that.
Even when she still can't bring herself to hate him.
Especially now, with fingers on a paper he was touching, holding, writing on, looking at only days ago. She's such a fool.
It takes four minutes to even remember she, of all people, has a command of words after she writes his name for the second time in two years, and the first time not just to address an envelope out of necessity. )
Luther,
Sorry, again. Really.
It is pretty go, go, go around these parts all at time. That's why this took so lo Work keeps me busier than parties do, but those can be their own version of insanity. I guess I'd rate LA somewhere around an 8 on normal days, and 200 on the insane ones, when people actually fill the top of an indoor pool with floating candles and pomegranate seeds just for decor.
How are yAre things Are youDo you
I'm glad things are good there. Tell Pogo and Mom I send my love. That I haven't forgotte That they can write, if they want to. I'm busy, but I can find the time. I still have to come home and eat and sleep and shower like everyone else in the world.
I saw a broadcast about what you did in Mumbai. Congrats on that.
no subject
They are the two words that encapsulate her entire existence.
They are the only two words that circle Allison's mind, over and over and over, and if she were the type to she'd sit down and put her head between her knees, she would. She doesn't. She may hate her father, but his training has applied far more to this new world of hers than she ever would have dreamed. She wouldn't be caught dead with her head between her knees by her siblings when she was younger or her roommates now. Not ever. No one was allowed to get the better of her. Not ever again.
She listens as well to 'don't worry' as he did to 'please disregard.' What did she write? Why is it she can impel whatever she wants from whatever's in front of her, but she can't force her mind to just turn up what it was. How bad. How stupid. How desperate. It's on his mirror, and she's picturing which side of the mirror for way too long without breathing.
It takes days. She puts it down. Picks it up. Puts it in her a bed table. Takes it out. Reads it more times than she'd admit even the first night. Horror sticks, but slipping out from it is the sore, sad desperation. That ache in her chest she did so well to put in the smallest box in the smallest room inside her head. The one that had somehow won out that night. On the town. Drinking a little too much celebrating her new job. Doing the stupidest thing in the entire goddamn world as her gift to herself apparently. More reasons she's never supposed to lose control of herself.
She hates herself. Tells herself it really is stupid. Tells herself to put it away. Tells herself his handwriting still looks the exact same, and somehow that only hurts more. Like everything else is still the same. Somewhere else. In the wrong 'where else. That just so happened to somehow still be the right one for him, even two years later. She still hates that.
Even when she still can't bring herself to hate him.
Especially now, with fingers on a paper he was touching,
holding, writing on, looking at only days ago. She's such a fool.
It takes four minutes to even remember she, of all people, has a command of words after she writes his name for the second time in two years, and the first time not just to address an envelope out of necessity. )
Sorry, again. Really.
It is pretty go, go, go around these parts all at time.
That's why this took so loWork keeps me busier than parties do, but those can be their own version of insanity. I guess I'd rate LA somewhere around an 8 on normal days, and 200 on the insane ones, when people actually fill the top of an indoor pool with floating candles and pomegranate seeds just for decor.How are yAre thingsAre youDo youI'm glad things are good there. Tell Pogo and Mom I send my love.
That I haven't forgotteThat they can write, if they want to. I'm busy, but I can find the time. I still have to come home and eat and sleep and shower like everyone else in the world.I saw a broadcast about what you did in Mumbai. Congrats on that.
Allison