Fuck Week...

NPR is streaming Okkervil River's new album. This is the second time I've made it through today. Love them, not yet sure if it's better than really good. There's all this shit on my desktop, motorcycle insurance and appointments and academic articles I write because I'm a false fucking whore. Tomorrow morning, I have to go into the DMV, then I have to run, have to sit in the sun, have to let my skin strengthen and burn and grow confident under this suddenly scorching California. I got a call today from someone trying to make my man-u into a movie, who told me about some big swinger in some faraway city who is afraid of my truth, afraid to take my hand, afraid I will break her bones. No, she won't even look into my eyes and it's making me fire, and it's making something recently dormant inside of me agitate. The seams aren't splitting like they used to, instead resilient, expanding and stretching as I breathe weighted, obscene, absurd breath. Everything about this feels so fucking absurd. Everything about me, this week. Hopefully not next. Thursday, I'm driving to Utah. Saturday, I'm running the Ironman and I feel flat, controlled. I feel strong, like I can see him, the Devil, looking at me, hands already tight in white tape. His clout is fading. I'm going to take him by the throat and pin him against the ground, drool and spit rage all over his face. I'll tell him these things, speak my peace then let him up, before I ask him to take my hand and show me what's next and where to wander and where to not fear the fall. He is my friend, sometimes my mentor, often misunderstood as vile. Only when he returns do I realize how much I've missed, the depth of my responsibility. Someone's hand is on my face, holding it, a girl. I'm not dismantling her for trying. There is no desire. There's a ring on my finger that won't come off. It means more to me than anything. It has to always. The streets are too many, my remaining steps too few.