You are as predictable as a box. At times I thump you and there is no sound. You're filled to the brim with ideas and creations that have yet to be constructed. You can't hear me through your inner madness that drips like slime from your tear ducts. I scream at you to hear me, but like a pizza man at a loud party, you can't hear me clearly enough to answer the damn door and see what I have to offer. You're lost inside of yourself, as always, unable to see the fact that an entire world revolves around you. If only you would come out of your head, hermit. You'd see that there are things out here worth having. I don't think you'll come out, though. I think you're locked away forever. In the construction paper, crayola crayon fantasy world you slapped together when everything else fell apart in your life.
At other times I thump on you and the only thing that I can hear is this large, overwhelming void that has absolutely nothing in it except for yourself. And for all of the silence that you endure, it would seem as though you still can't hear me. There is never any answer to my knock, knock, knocking on heaven's door. The party is over. The guests in your head have all gone home. But I'm still outside in the rain, screaming at you as loudly as I can and you don't even look up. You're at some great divide within your soul, I'm sure. There, with Kurt Cobain and Virginia Woolf to keep you company, right?
Your books and your television and your fish and your cat. But where the hell am I supposed to be? You are either so full or so empty that there isn't any room in your life for me to fit. Not properly at least. I belong to no one. I belong to a great empty nothing. You belong to your "things"... I belong to absolutely nothing. I don't fit into your head. I don't fit into your life. I sure as the hell don't fit into your heart... So if you can't stand to touch me, and can't stand to be less than three feet from me, what in the bloody hell am I to you? I attempt to cuddle and kiss you like normal girlfriends, but God no! Heaven forbid that lasts more than five minutes, right? Six minutes would be torture and ten would be certain death. What am I??? Your chauffeur? Your buddy? Your pal? Your non-biological daughter. You do so love to parent me at times. What am I? Where am I? You seemed "so into me" in the beginning. Your words, not mine. But as my Mother reminded me, that is SUCH a cop out response to everything. So maybe you just wanted me around to fuck so you could break your year and a half abstinence, eh? Using me like everyone else? Oh I simply can't wait to muse over you later. At least I can forget about Bryan now, though. At least I got that much out of this.
I'm sure tomorrow will bring a sense of normalcy. You'll be your chipper dipper old self. Chirp about some hell awful printer or television show until I'm screaming internally, wishing for once that you'd stop acting like some God forsaken hippie who's smoked pot all day and eaten Cheetos and watched Scooby Doo. Wishing your TVs would break and your computer would die. So you would HAVE to pay attention to me. But you still wouldn't. Your books would suddenly become the most important thing in the UNIVERSE! You'd rush madly towards them, like lost lovers of yours, devour them, page by page until paper ribbons are coming out of your anus. You'd suck the very marrow out of everything, everything except me.
You said you enjoyed "complex people" and that's why you liked me. I was complex. Or so you implied. I think you really enjoy complex people because we're stupid in your mind. We're easy to coerce into bed after five days of meeting and easy to keep around to drive you places. So easy to use and throw away. Maybe that's what really happened with your "lost love"...she was so much like you that she grew tired of you instead of the typical reverse and went out in search of something more....complicated? ;]
Ah well - my maddened rantings have worn me out.