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I can't really remember anymore who I told this... maybe I just said it to myself. Reality has been a haze lately. Anyway, it just seemed like writing it down somewhere was a good idea.

It's not a matter of trust... it's just that I've given up.
I'm so tired of being disappointed by human beings. My parents, my siblings, my friends... everyone.
Why tell the truth if it doesn't matter? I've attempted to make so many people understand who I am and for what? To be told they simply don't understand or, my personal favorite, that I'm not trying hard enough.

I've felt so utterly alone these past few weeks. My friends far and wide are worried, and I tell them not to, that it will pass... and it will, but I'll probably have a lot fewer friends at the end of it.
That's ok... I don't really mind. I'm tired of being interesting all the time. "Oh gee, what does Kay have to say? What can we learn from her miserable existence?"
(And may I pause to say no one even calls me Kalin anymore... some people I've realized never have addressed me by my full name. It use to not bother me... now it does as I've attempted to make a point for people to address me by my full name and they've utterly refused or forgotten.)
So here's the gist of what I have to say...

I applied for a promotion last week, finished finals, finished papers, the weather has been nice, my parents have been fighting, my puppy is still growing, I dunno what I want to be when I grow up, and I dunno what I'm doing this summer.
Details? Truth?
I don't remember anymore.

I'm going to come back and edit this later, I'd just rather not forget that I figured out something.... something big I tell ya!

I know why I've been so angry, I think... thinking hurts... and the fear of being wrong is just as painful.
But here it is... ready?
Stop not caring!
It's so pathetic! All of us! We all can see we live in a sick sick world, kids getting tazered for asking too many questions, monks getting shot for standing up in what they believe, and each and every one of us is in undescribable pain all the time.
And I've sat through some of your protests, some of your complaints, and rolled my eyes. But how could I? Who am I to sit here and say you're better off than me.
It's all about perception, about that lense we view life with.
This idea that we can be better if we are more logical. I think that's true, part of it. But it's.... it's not right.
There are perfectly logical answers out there that are absolutely ******** painful. That, though they are logical and thus have no intent, have the only affect of hurting people. So no, my goal in life is not to automate everything into this logical bookshelf of the mind.
Because in the mind, we were equipped with more than a bookshelf, something indescribable, that flexes and moves, wildly at times, ripping, pulling, testing the boundries of that bookcase.
So there has to be a healthy balance. There just has to...
And if we all could just find it... be able to listen to those in pain with a logical and yet emotional ear... wouldn't we be better off?
That's what I want.

Kyrie suggested we go for a drive in her new 2-door BMW coupe
In the parking lot, we slipped into her bucket seats...

Kyrie took over from there.

At nearly 90 miles per hour she zipped us up to that windy edge
Known to some as Mullholland, that sinuous road running
the ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains
Where she then proceeded to pump her vehicle in and out of turns
Sometimes dropping down to 50 miles per hour, only to
immediately gun it back up to 90 again

Fast, slow, fast fast slow

Sometimes a wide turn sometimes a quick one
she preferred the tighter ones
The sharp controlled jerks,
swinging left to right before driving back to the right
Only so she could do it all over again
until after enough speed,
and enough wind,
and more distance than I had been prepared to expect
Taking me to parts of the city I rarely think of and never visit.

I heard her say...

"Hey pretty
Don't you wanna take a ride with me?
Through my world

Hey pretty
Don't you wanna kick and slide
Through my world"

I can't remember the inane things I started
babbling about then, I knew it didn't really matter,
she wasn't listening
She just yanked up on the emergency brake,
dropped her seat back,
and told me to lie on top of her

On top of those leather pants of hers, extremely expensive leather pants mind you,

her hands immediately guiding mine
over those soft, slightly oily folds
Positioning my fingers on the shiny metal tab, small and round, like a tear
Then murmuring a murmur so inaudible that even though I could feel her
lips tremble against my ear, she seemed far, far away

Pinch it, she said, which I did, lightly, until she also said pull it,
which I also did, gently parting the teeth, one at a time, down under
and beneath,
the longest unzipping of my life...

"Hey pretty
Don't you wanna take a ride with me?
Through my world

Hey pretty
Don't you wanna kick and slide
Through my world

Hey pretty
My pretty baby
Rock it through my world

Hey pretty
My pretty baby
Rock it through my world"

We never even kissed,
or looked into each other's eyes,
our lips just trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears,
Filled them with the private music of wicked words
Hers in many languages, mine in the off-color of my only tongue,
until as our tones shifted and our consonants spun and squealed,
rabbled faster,
hesitated,
raced harder
Syllables soon melting into groans or moans,
finding purchase in new words,
or old words,
or made-up words

Too bad dark languages rarely survive...

So my first class today was surreal.
... that's the only way I could describe it.
In comes an old man, a weathered old man with a shaky voice that shows signs of decay. It's almost as if he is struggling with each word, a hoarse whisper of a sound, it's almost hard to listen, let alone understand.
We're in my favorite building, my favorite room that is decorated intensely, with two fire places on each end of the room. (I always end up going to school in mansions eh?)
In any case he begins to talk about what the class was suppose to accomplish.

Every hoarse guttural gasp of a word was a sonnet in composition.
I just sat there mesmerized by what he had to say, it was as if he was opening a case to us, the jury, arguing for the rights of local government.
It hurt to listen to that voice, not because it made me sick to listen, but because it was just a frame of what it use to be, hardly anything of what it must have been. Strong and powerful, crisp and bold...
... such a strange class.