Pistachio Icecream

I think I’ve hit an all-time low. My chest hurts, like I’m aching for something. Love? . . . How strange. A word I’ve never fully learned how to pronounce, but still keep wondering about. My thoughts seem to race around behind my eyes, so far away that catching anything with my net woven of children’s dreams seems impossible. I’m trying to write. Trying to breathe. Trying to forget that my emotions – at the moment – are the shittiest rollercoaster I’ve ever been on. I’m terrified of rollercoasters. The way they creak and stop and pull and drop you into a never ending tunnel that's softened only by the terrified screams of the people around you, the cries that remind you that you’re not alone. The back of my legs ache, too. It’s like I’m going into withdrawal. But how can you abandon something when you were never even fully submerged? I don’t think I’ll ever be. My fear of rejection keeps me from even trying. Maybe it’s psychological. Maybe I’m just too different. Too strange. It seems like I’m looking at the world through tented glass. Colors don’t seem as right as they used to. Maybe that’s because I’ve taken to wearing black. I need a man: one with silky black hair, skin as soft as a Saturday morning and the color of how I fix my coffee. Too much cream. Too much sugar. My parents drink it black. I guess it’s my secret rebellion. But people aren’t a crutch, and it’s wrong of me to even think about them in that light. I’m so isolated, it seems. I can read you, inside and out, but you’ve never even glanced at my title. My ice-cream has nearly all melted. All that’s left are the little pistachio pieces, floating like little life boats. I find myself eating the disgusting, creamy liquid. Like heaven is at the bottom of the bowl, and I just need to find it. No. Just that stupid, happy slogan.
“Yum-yum time is . . . Over!”
Son of a bitch. I have the sudden urge to smash the bowl, and make a mosaic out of the pieces; to do something, anything that will keep me from insanity. From self-hatred. From feeling so disgusting and useless and alone that it all seems like too much. But it’s not too much, is it? It never is. There is plenty of straw, but I’ve never felt too much like a camel. No. This all-time low seems allot like the others. I guess it isn’t really “all-time,” is it?