There's the faint aching of a frontal lobe, sleep deprovation headache coming on. My eyes feel strained from wearing my contacts; bulging as if they could "pop" the contacts right off and breathe in some air. I feel like crying, as if somehow that could soothe me and make everything okay.
Randy is asleep on the couch next to me. His phone just rang. There it goes again. Whoever is calling must have got the idea that it's 3am.
The irony. LOL. I smile, but it's more out of pain. On our drive out to L.A I talked about not expecting too much from his work so that he wouldn't be disappointed. I didn't seem to remember this advice when we got to the club and his tired, "Randy First" attitude took precedence. I expected more, and less. More that it would be a fun time for us to be together and less of...hmm, less of Randy? I wonder if sometimes I don't just see the more true and untethered him when he drinks. That's fucking in the genes too. Thanks mom. Patterns.
I'm ready to go to sleep anytime, he says. Yeah. Me too.
j.r.me
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The daily jazz of my mind, as pure & honest as possible; but know that words are themselves filters of the original thought/idea.
