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dear popups,

go away. my guestbook doesn't like you, any of you. i haven't won $1100. fuck you. i don't want mini cameras. really. stop trying to pretend that they are for security. you pervert. i hate you. die. die. die.

k.

****

so i wasn't late on friday. oh-ho no. i showed up and someone else had showed up at the same time. to avoid an awkward confrontation, or even having to unglue my lips and utter words, i ducked into the bathroom. then i sat in the hallway. psychiatrists passed me. i underlined my book, laplanche's "life and death in psychoanalysis." no, i don't get it. i just "study" it.

when they finally entered fred's office, i stood at the door of the waiting room. go, go go. knock. knock! look through the letter slot. just go! i pitched a quiet hissy fit, distraught at my inabilities to move, to act, to speak, to TRY. i entered the pungent space, sat down. it was getting late and i knew that i would have to call socks. but i didn't. again, i couldn't move. i couldn't ask fred to borrow his phone for a second. i--just--couldn't.

so i cried in the waiting room, trying to let the emotions of the past two weeks and all the plane crash dreams and all the images and words and everything just SPILL over, because i had held back so well. i only really started to cry when i thought about my parents, both of whom would be flying in the next few weeks. i was scared.

and fred and i talked a little. i can't even remember what it was about other than the shit of recent weeks. of fears. of why people shouldn't have them, of why they should.

yecch.

now i am finished. i am not dreaming of planes, i'm not dreaming period. i am worrying but i'm not worrying. i am pained but i am numb. i'm just a part of this cold drizzly weather. i'm mirroring the fall like nothing else.