I'm finally severing my emotional ties to this godforsaken island of rage and sailing off into..what?

In laymans terms, I'm moving back to South Dakota. I've been putting it off for months..but my mother and I have grown more volatile toward each other, and work is turning into a wretched place to be. I hate moving even farther away from Seattle and the woman I have found, but I can't afford to live here without living in my mother's house, and I don't want to jinx things with Erica by moving in (thought she has oh-so-kindly invited me to do so). :)

I've been a jealous dick lately, and a grumpy one at that. I blame hormones. Not only am I PMSing, I stopped taking birth control on account of my pauper-hood, so I'm ten kinds of fucked up in my estrogen-wielding uterus.

In other news: I love her boobs, and she thinks mine are pretty swell. I think piercings are in order. ;)

I talked to my dad for a long time on the phone today, about an hour. It was really nice, we don't usually talk that long. We have most of the plans in order for me moving there. I am going to see Erica Thanksgiving weekend, though. She's coming to Billings, but shh! Don't tell Gustavo. I'm going to surprise him :) He wanted to meet her before I ran off, and doesn't think he gets to.

I haven't told my mother yet. I'm not sure how she's going to react. Today, she randomly left for Winnet for three days without telling me..so I think I'm going to tell her while they're gone..as in maybe tomorrow. Not sure.

Anyway, I have a fair maiden to attend to :)

When can I be Olivia?

This, of course, means nothing to you. And maybe I should think of Olivia as her, instead of as me..but I seem to want from others what I lack in myself. I know this. This explains Rebecca, which is interestingly the sister of an Olivia I know of. I've wanted to possess Rebecca for a very long time, to take on her life and love. Her eye and hand.
But Olivia..

I am at a loss, today. Sort of like Amelia Earhart..post mortem. Such a stunning history, and I only remember her death. Say goodbye to 1937, I'm thirsty.

Maybe she went out quenched.

I booked my flight. As of three minutes ago I am suffering from unholy amounts of Giddy. I cannot wait, cannot wait.

Poulsbo, Poulsbo. Get ready, try not to panic, board the plane, try not to panic, get on plane and be shockingly calm, land, try not to panic, drive to Poulsbo, try not to shake uncontrollably/talk my mouth off, get home, feel jittery, talk until the wee hours of the morning, sleep.

I reckon there will be kisses in there, too. Oh, Jesus I'm shaking. Like the maggots cocooned, and now they're tearing out of their silk bedsheets to wreak havoc on my tender chest--and I love every second of it. Every second. I am optimistic, there are silver linings.
I need to buy more lace.

I waltz in my head. I know you, I've walked with you once upon a dream. And to think we would both be wearing dresses. It's rather lovely, if you ask me.

I'm in school. According to one (potentially wackjob) dude way back in the day, races are "mutations" much like the beaks of birds in Darwin's studies varied to best suit their environment. I sort of like that theory. The rest of his stuff seemed a little pretentious and self-justifyin, but that one I like. It makes me wonder if (assuming the human race makes it that far) we'll all look the same (race-wise, I mean), what with all the travel we do now and it's inevitable increase in the future.

In other news, some words on my heart:

My heartstrings reach across the tundra
a barren place between here and there
filled with swingsets, Radio Flyer--
all rusting from tears and acid rain.
But soft!
I listen, you see, to the comfort in my fingers,
toes, and once-apprehensions.
And I fear not the falling, not the landing.
Perhaps the aftermath..perhaps.
But until then, fairest,
we'll plummet to the ground
with pinkies laced.

My eyes are thick with the day's grime. I sit, studying laboriously over trifles of information. I mentioned to you once I use a rhyming dictionary. It was no lie, and now you watch my genius die.

I can juggle your baggage, up in the air like a carnival clown. And down in the third ring the elephants stand on great painted balls made of rubber, walls of red and white. And overhead, in glowing spotlight, the tightrope walker with her long nose and chin. The music is too loud, the elephants too proud. The rings of fire for the languid lions blaze too hot, too high. The walker in her great yellow poof are now in flame, the blame goes to the ringmaster's bad casting, crude acting, and the popcorn is crunched under fleeing feet. One clown and his receding hairline thinks the fire and corn smells like home, the one he drank into oblivion.

A spotlight, a tophat.

That spun wildly out of control. I have no idea what I meant..interesting.