Every time I put a clean pillow case on my pillow I see the bloodstain from the time my ex-boyfriend's nose bled in the middle of the night. I think about how much he apologized for it in the morning. Then I think about all the things he didn't apologize for. The things he never will apologize for. That bloodstain makes me instantly nostalgic; not for him, but for that time when things felt like they were working out. "Working out" meaning the way I thought things were supposed to happen.
I don't know what that way is anymore.
Lately I've been down. I'd like to be up. The shower drain is clogged with more hair than I remember having and I have to struggle daily wondering where all my cigarettes went. I've been prescribed pills by friends who aren't pharmacists. They help. The friends and the pills, but only until morning.
I need to write more stories. I need to climb out of this. I need to go to bed. I need a massage.
Bottom line: It's late (or early depending on how you tell time), I'm drunk, the sleeping pill is kicking in, I needed to put some words down tonight, and if they're all spelled correctly I will sleep soundly.
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