Bath now

I don't have a subtitle for this

It’s freezing and my heat is broken. I went up on the roof to kick the machine but there wasn’t any ice or snow on it, so it’s broken for some other reason. I’m in the bath with the wood plank for the computer and my body feels warm and the water looks brown and green because of the reflection of me and the plank put together. The wood is wide enough for my arms to rest on it. I’m here in the bath writing because I couldn’t drag myself outside even though I felt deeply lonely. Jack was in Maine and Katy is in California and I fucking hate writers and writing. The high pitched ass sound of someone thinking they’re good at anything pushes my cock up into my tummy. Nothing anyone says here especially me is contributing to anything of value or substance for anyone. Prove me wrong. This is just something to do in the bath right now, because I’m not shitting or on my phone. This is a fucking stupid useless thing to do.

Anyway, it’s cold and I’m feeling soft and I know the only reason I get in these moods is because I need to be held badly. I am deeply lonely. How fucking small dumb and predictable. “Held and Hard is a beautiful name for a baby girl” she said. I was talking about kids and having kids to a writer in my DMs. Now I’m in the bath and I wish there was a large warm motherly body in here with me. Mommy shaped and fat enough for me to squeeze between her legs the full weight of my body up against her like those pregnancy body pillows and I’ll be the body and she’ll be the pillow. I’ll lean my head back against her fat rolls, and she’ll brush the wet hair off my forehead.

I never let anyone brush the hair off my forehead but I need to.

I stopped writing for a few minutes to look at my phone, yes my phone is on the fucking wooden plank next to the fucking computer and everything is wet. Sadly there is no motherly body behind me. Just the dull ache in my back from not moving all day. My hair isn’t wet it’s dry, and still perfectly “set” in the shape and style of how I need to see myself in the mirror. I never look in the mirror unless my hair is set. Before standing in front of it I dry it with the towel usually hanging from the door. I do this so much its automatic, and this is the first time I’m writing it down which to me comes off as pathetic, but I do not care. Not because it’s meaningful or not meaningful, but because its pathetic and it’s true.

It’s also a little more out loud proof that I’ve constructed the perfect jail for my soul. Anyway I look at my phone to a restricted chat from a person I don’t know.

“Sometimes when I get emotional I get distracted”

the account says.

I get that, but also no fucking shit. I’m tired of distracting myself from the way things feel. At the core this is why we use these fucking things - it’s not just distraction or attention or addiction it’s just anti-therapy but I’m not writing about being online, I’m writing about being lonely in real life. And the only time I can recognize that is when I share shit online. How gay, how true, how sincere.

It’s an easy automatic action to kill the deepest truth inside yourself. Hiding is bad for art, and it always ends up coming back to fuck you anyway. And it will rip your ass wide open.

I started writing this angry and cold, but now I’m warm and accepting of the dull ache in my spine and it’s chill and it’s cool.

I’m gonna dry off and drive to your apartment, I want to ring your bell.