*"well at least you haven't written an entry called, 'my life sucks because my dad was a coke addict.'" 2001-05-05 2:21 a.m.*

i have a kitten crawling all over my bed, like a wee little prowling tiger and i am reminded how it's really not so bad. really not so bad really. not so bad really. and then she mew mew MEW MEEEEWs because to her it is so bad. she screams like a child caught in a beartrap, and i saw "sweetie, shh, it's okay, it's okay, you are safer than you think. it's okay. don't be sad. hushabye don't you cry go to sleepy baby when you wake you shall have all the pretty little horsies." and she squints up at me, trustinglike and then falls into sleep, into sleep, into kitten sleep because as the cat quote list i do belong to told me today, cats may suffer from many ailments, but insomnia is not one of them. i have a kitten sleeping on my bed right now, dreaming of her old home, her brothers, her sisters, her squinty mommy, the people she knows, the walk through the wall, the film we watched.

which is what is going through my brain right now as well. we watched gia. yay angelina jolie! yay angelina jolie having lesbian sex! yay yay yay!

but, and this is the feel sorry for me part, this is the reason for my sad eyes when i was with the girl i so very much like, she was totally playing my dad. playing my dad and so many people i don't know. but my dad who i do know. that rise to the top, that fall. and i had the most awful thought while i was watching it. and it's one of those thoughts that is so scary to say out loud because that makes it real, but i have to say it.

i thought about how sad it is that he survived. that he's still alive to be this shell of a man that will shatter all the memories we have of that beautiful man he was. i keep thinking, "he should have died," it would have been better. they always talk about how "it's best that they died. they're in a better place now. their suffering is over." but what if they haven't died, they're in the worse place, their suffering continues. i'm being incoherent, but i'm not crying, it's okay, i'm not crying.

oh i miss him, oh i miss him, oh i miss him. i miss his smile, his laugh, his jokes, the way he flirted with cashiers, the way we had the same eyes, the way he would smell, the way his arms would feel, the music he would play, the art he did, the furniture he fixed, the conversations, the smile, the smile, i miss his smile. i miss his smile before it lost it's gleam, before the drugs took over and they started to roll in a way that makes it look like he's checking you (me, his daughter) out, before i stopped trusting the reason he was smiling ("you know that old joke about how you can tell when a junkie is lying? [his]lips are moving. it's not funny.").

he cleaned up my vomit when i was 7 and i had the flu, but i just can't forgive him for living every day as a reminder of the man he was, the man he killed. that's the thing. he's still alive but he's not.

*listening to: *
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