The Sequel

I'm guilt tripping myself again. That's a statement, not a confession, you idiot. I'd like to keep the facts in front of me and try and make sense of them together (pssst: they won't). It's like a little ball of wool that's tangled far too much to ever be fully untied. But the little knots aren't that obvious on my new sweater, are they? We could hide one of them on the side, and, really, who looks at the back of sweaters anyway? A few hundred knots could be hidden here and there. But enough with the metaphors. It doesn't all make sense together because it can't. Not with all the switching, the back and forth from the words to the numbers to the outrageous. It's not consistent. I know this. It's no victory when all you can establish are symptoms, but then, you already know that there is *drumroll please* no cure.

I'm going to sit down and make a list of victories. I can hardly believe they ever happened, but listing failures ended in failure too. How ironic. Yawn.

(You don't get it. What I remember are the old, old things. They don't matter. Or do I remember them because of "it" too? I can smile at them indulgently. And, you know, forget about you sometimes. So we're ok. This isn't worth switching posts or blogs, is it?)

What I'm really afraid of isn't that there is no way back. That much is clear. I'm just worried about what it's going to be like. Fuck fuck fuck. I'm much more screwed than I thought. Maybe I'll just stick to the list of failures.