i guess i’ve seen the desert. and i guess i know it’s beautiful. and i remember it as some kind of sepia nostalgia. a strange horizon line very different from the oceans.

i would cry when i lived there, and eat too much, and have nightmares while sweating out my fears and run from the stink bugs and fall onto rusty nails while my grandfather would laugh and i probably would have too if i were him.

and i keep longing to go there and wanting to camp there and love there and sleep there and adventure and drive and drink water and throw tumbleweeds and take pictures of twirling fabrics and dress in costumes and masks and whistle coyote songs.

but i’ve never had the right one to go with. and i still want lover roadtrips just like kids did in high school. i still want all those stupid romantic things i never got the chance to have.

i speak as though dying.

but i’m getting older. and time is wearing thin. and my moods are getting blacker and my presence is becoming more and more of a filthy crawling shadow creature oil. and i’m distancing myself because sometimes i feel that i have no choice.

i remember driving with our dog, gidget, to my grandparents in the mojave desert and she was sitting in the front with me. i took her paw with my right hand and held it there.

i love animals dearly.

but i want to love a human dearly. and for it to mean something. for it to blossom into something beautiful. for it to cause the epiphany about myself that may or may not be true. that maybe i’m not as awful and grotesque and detestable as i think or know i am.

i’m awfully tired and just drank the strongest unbirthday tea i’ve ever made.