Crocker Stearns Extension

A rock thrown up in the air. It loses nothing by coming down, gained nothing by going up.

It just gets too insurmountable to think about and if it weren't for the long work weeks the three jobs I would probably drink more, to sleep through the night, if not for the crying dog 3:00 in the morning. How impossible it is to get back to sleep after. And ten hour day follows twelve hour day and you're still couting the numbers on the calendar, and they say to you

Well he called but I felt awkward cause I knew the whole situation, how you weren't there, and I didn't go. You can hang out with us though.

And to have no idea how many times, thus. To detour around that address because to be left out like that again could positively be The Straw. To feel how fucking tenuous it is, sanity. And how your name comes up at work when you're not there, and how it's impossible to be a private person, and how embarrassing that is -- to not know what htey know and to be unable to defend oneself -- and how there isn't even a way to deal with it. And will it affect who lets me go in? Geared up and airpack on and how do I have any way of knowing what they think about me, really? Not knowing what is said. There is no way to deal with it after the sixty hours and awkwardness of being around people who know more about you than you do about them and not by your doing, at every stroke feeling that it's down to go up. Up up up.

Just sell this place, move on. To be kittied up to someone eight months in only. To have no foothold. Second day and a call at 7:30 his car on the side of the road, second day and at this place there are only a few more chances. To be kittied up so. If it weren't for the work and the bills and the balancing of accounts and the research for future options there would be time to think and that would certainly be terrifying. And when I really let myself stop to think about it, I get swallowed up into this deep loneliness like the world inhabited by the newly blind, grasping with desperation at the last slipping fragment of memory. Of what the world used to be like.