"I'm lucky," he says leaning against the dirty bar wall. He's speaking to me--about me--with besotted breath of fire. I know these words are for me because he's like this when he's been drinking. And although I'm here against my will with the jukebox blaring wretched music and wearing the most uncomfortable clothes to ever come off of a manufacturing line, I've never felt so exultant.

He speaks to me, enchanting me, and enticing me. I let him lull me further and further into his words, his eyes, his arms (his lies?) with a complete disreguard for the mastodonic wall I've built around me. What's the point of having a wall if I'm just going to let everyone in who knocks on the door?

Sometimes I wonder where this is all going. "What the hell are you doing?" is quickly becoming my most often thought phrase. I'm constantly tiptoeing on unstable ground. I want to push him and run, not walk, quickly to the nearest exit. He's my addiction and my senselessness. I can't wait until the feeling fades and I can go back to normal.

~Ams "I am kind of a paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy." -J.D. Salinger

Mood:  Shut up.