sup, new year's eve.

crikey.
reformatting computers is harder than it looks.
even with ubuntu.
i took a sleeping pill forty five minutes ago and now my left eyelid is involuntarily drooping.
i can only assume my right eyelid will follow suit shortly.

(i'd spend the night and i'd lose my mind)

i need to read my cards. i need to do my work.
my eyes hurt like i've been slicing onions all day even though i haven't.
it's my sinuses. they're all blocked up and i have a migrane and i'm pretty sure if i don't stay hydrated i will come down with the flu.
i'm anxious to get back to victoria. even though i'm going with my dad, i'm scared of the drive. scared of the mountains, scared of the snow, scared of the waning daylight (it goes too soon, too soon). these last days always feel like limbo even though i'm still. they always feel like no man's land. maybe we'll leave tomorrow, in the evening, maybe we'll wait until morning, get our five o'clock new year's day coffees and go. i told my dad it's up to him; i just want to get there. i want the ocean and i want my bed and i want to not live out of my big black duffel anymore. i want it to be 2008 so i can pretend to start again, or something.

zyprexa times

i'm bleeding all over everything. today i was lazy and i put my boxers in the washing machine instead of soaking them in cold water with dish soap like my mom taught me to do when i was thirteen. the stains didn't come out and i stood at the sink for twenty minutes running them under alternating cold and hot water with a bottle of sunlight.
there's paperwork all over my bed and a half finished beer on my desk, and even though it's eleven thirty and i'm about to go to sleep, i'm wearing this ridiculous woven bone white beret that makes me look jamaican.
today was the big switch day. the big switch day always makes me sad, makes me guilty, even though i've been to therapy enough times to hear the counselors say inside my head, chelsea, this is not your stuff. and that's what they say. stuff. like it's luggage or something. like it's duffel bags i'm trying to carry even though they don't have my name on them. i like my room at my father's house better. it looked austere before i put all my stuff (and i am talking about luggage) on the floor, but i've had this room longer. i've had this room since i was three. no one has turned it into a home gym in my absence.
and on my way out the door to the airport this morning, i stopped dead in the foyer. my dad finally filled the hole in the wall where, in the summer, he tried to make a mail slot but couldn't because in his percocet-induced delirium, he forgot to check for studs. the plaster has been sanded, but not painted, and i fingered it like a scar.
the corona is finished and i miss you. i wasn't supposed to miss you. this wasn't part of the plan.

existential questions

where did i come from?
you came from the sun.

dear santa claus,
all i want for christmas is someone willing
to rub the tension out of my back
shoulders wrists fingers.
love,
chelsea.

dear you know who,
sometimes you are such a fucking tease. and i don't like it
because it's making me like you.
love,
chelsea.

dear fall semester two thousand and seven,
you tried to eat my life and i am still alive.
i am so finished with you.
take that.
love,
chelsea.

when my modern canadian poetry professor marks my final, it will be obvious to him that i spent this night, this last night before the exam, painting and socializing and getting high and laughing into the night because even our shadows were hilarious--or maybe he won't know that. but it will be obvious to him that i did not spend this night cobbling together evidence for a comparative essay on the poet's role in society or the apathetic universe or the superimposition of myth over reality like i'm supposed to, like i would have done if i was good.
something inside me is quaking, rupturing, and i don't know what it is. but i'm waiting. i'm waiting for it to break open and spill like blood, or as blood, onto the page or the canvas, or the floor.
the tarot will not comment.

how to feel like you are high even though you are not:

go to rebar for dessert.
don't decide between chocolate cake and apple pie.
order both, with coffee, put them side by side in the middle of the table and share.
eat both. do not save any for next day leftovers.
walk back to her apartment, listen to joni mitchell, and spend the rest of the night painting the blank canvasses she's had since she was thirteen.
-i just had a breakthrough.
-me too.
-this is going to be the sea.
-MINE is going to be the sea!
laugh a lot, about nothing.
watch the angles around your torso soften.

if you think i'm not a good voyeur
you are wrong.

dear universe,
when am i going to stop being so sad?
when?
love,
chelsea.

i'm holding a lot of tension in my butt.
theatre seats apparently don't remedy this.
i can't believe i have to deal with another week of all this stupid academic bullshit.
multiple choice english tests.
i feel better now that there is a YYJ-YYC flight at the end of it.
but, in the film i watched tonight, nicole kidman's character wore old jeans and moccasins and scarves and smoked a lot of marijuana, and even though i don't smoke a lot of marijuana anymore, i wonder if i've started something. what are those things called.
trends.

if november was the official
chelsea takes refuge
month, then december will officially be the
chelsea drinks a lot of beer in a lot of funny places
month.

i am having fun.
fun. i remember what fun is.

tonight i ate homemade soup in janine's bed while we watched life aquatic, and i learned a difficult but important life lesson, and the universe rewarded me when i got home to a heated apartment.
yes. it's been seven days. and my furnace works again.
i'm going to sleep naked simply because it's warm enough.