Joel and I walked Butterfield on the ice today, around and around the outdoor rink. Butters digs in and pulls me around, all I have to do is set my center of gravity just so, so that I won't get pulled off my feet and I bend my knees and get a hell of a fun ride.
Joel thinks that everything is fucked up. He never has anything new to say anymore.
I'm considering moving and just starting over somewhere where no one knows me. Meet someone who knows nothing about me, maybe in the witness protection program. A new name, a new life. A new start without all this. And go back to not saying a word and not listening and not doing much of anything, quietly and somberly, the way I spent my first thirty-five or so years.
Except that everyone would find me. Christ, it took you guys a whole four hours to find that goddamned Flickr page that Ben said he took down and didn't. You guys are relentless. And every time I think I can trust Ben one hundred percent he lies to me.
I can't disappear. It's too late for that. It's too late for everything and whatever brief respite that comes is gone before I can savor it and I'm tired. And THIS is the self-destruction that results, at least it brings feeling of some kind.
Off to therapy, a perfect chance for them to see precisely how un-pulled-together I can really be.
