Shit Tattoo Trend

I dated the Captain in 2009. At the time I had pink hair and was still upset over being dumped a few months earlier by Adam, the prettiest guy I ever dated. I was living with Abby and her geriatric cat Ophie, who was in love with me. Her other geriatric cat Qipu had just passed away and she wanted to get a tattoo to remember him. Qipu's ashes were in a box on top of Abby's trophy for taint licking in her bedroom. We went to the best tattoo shop in Boston, just down the street from where we lived. I'd been there before but the Captain was a newish employee. About my height, mid-30s, jet black pompadour, covered in tattoos. Neck, hands, fingers, the works. While Abby was being worked on by another employee the Captain and I half-chatted and flirted. I don't really know how to flirt, by the way. Sometimes I try too hardor vice versa but this was nice and even. It was one of those magical times when you just know something's going to happen. My friend Coco also worked at the shop and warned me that he was okay but she was unsure of his attitude towards women. I also heard him talking to a friend while at the shop about some younger girl and wasn't being too polite...though his mocking of her fake Coach bag tipped me off that she was probably the kind of girl I'd openly mock as well. He was aggressive and alive. I liked it.
Later in the week we had a drink at the Brendan Behan pub and while I told myself to take this one slow I also knew it wasn't going to happen. Captain was his real name, he changed it from Robert or something a while ago. He was from Virginia or Kentucky but was obsessed with Halloween and while on a trip to Salem, Mass decided he wanted to live there. Something told me he had issues which made up and moving easy. I knew exactly how that was, after all. We left the bar and went to a hotel, partied like rock stars...and that's pretty much how the relationship went. It wasn't all sex. Like I said he was obsessed with Halloween and the devil and gore which drove me wild. His apartment in Salem was two floors of creepy shit with blood paintings and a cemetery in the backyard (not uncommon in Salem). We watched more horror movies than you can shake a stick at, had expensive dinners, licked each other's tattoos, explored Boston, loved Skynyrd.
Captain talked so fast you could hardly get a word in and when he asked things about me I had short answers but he didn't really listen. He just waited for his turn to talk. He was so crazy and exciting it was fun for a while. I couldn't really call him a real boyfriend but was okay with what it was. After a while the sex became too rough. He'd roll over and sleep with his back to me and when I tried to spoon him he farted. I became annoyed with staring at his tattooed butt while he slept. I became annoyed with his lewd jokes and nose picking and trying to go down on me if I had my period or had just taken a dump. Sometimes you just don't want it. We saw each other once a week or so.
I moved into a different house in the same neighborhood and my bedroom window opened onto a back porch on the second floor. Captain would knock on the window after midnight and crawl inside. It was June and so fucking hot, 100 or hotter for days and days with no air. His sweaty body in my bed became too much. Pretty soon his attitude towards women became all too clear. Not a woman hater but certainly a sadist. Too rough, too much pain. The Captain had a kid back south but clearly just needed to be selfish and was like a big kid. I couldn't handle it.

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shit's been interesting lately. i work two part time jobs because i'm a college dropout and can't decide what i want to "do" with my life. i'd go to dental school but am just living paycheck to paycheck right now...like the past ten years. but it could be worse. i'm not totally unhappy. pretty content, actually.
i have either crohns disease or colitis. similar things. everything i consume gives me discomfort, the end result is not eating much. i've become sort of obsessed with food and losing weight (not trying to, just how it is catching me off guard). my highest weight in boston was 165, which wasn't too large as i'm pretty tall, now down to 135-140. seems like a pretty dull disease but at the worst a colon removal happens. god.
joe moved to logan square and his cat died the same day, which has shattered him. his free time leads to him being blasted. he chugs from bottles of vodka. chugs! obviously i'm concerned for his health and state of mind, but when he tries to become amorous or talk about serious things and his eyes are out of focus and he has marble mouth and looks all bloated i just become angry. he's already been to rehab and would never go back. it's such a turn-off. i do not like drunks. i get blasted sometimes, lately only when at gingerman with a girlfriend when chris mccaughan is bartending because he makes me so fucking nervous i can't handle it. but i can't understand being drunk every night. i can't do it. i wanna help joe.
another anniversary of my brother's death has come and gone. giant blizzard, boring. need a new bike. it's been about a year since i moved to chicago. def. did the right thing at the time. how long i'll stay here i don't know. i like to move around. but things are getting so interesting...
i dunno. gotta go get my bike and check out my art show (that feels fucking weird to say even though it's not the first time). some extra cash would be good. L and L tonight after work. i'll smell like hickory smoke, tastycakes.


i detest being tied down in any way. in the make-believe world i live in i can leave any time i want, magically come up with money and get around, some romantic hippie roaming rambling bullshit. working for months and them possibly driving or taking the train twice a year has poisoned my brain with this idea. i am free. i don't like to live in the same room, date the same man, work the same job, bike the same street every day.
i know i am batshit crazy and hide it very well, and normalcy and being secure is a good thing. but i like to think that the early death of my brother has fucked up my entire life and i will use it as an excuse to be a total fuck-up and to act out at numerous times. that's immature, but i use it. i have. i stopped eating in college until my fair-weather friends carried me to the ER. i broke everything and stabbed myself and stayed in the psycho ward a few years ago. i drank and drove, acted like a selfish brat, fucked any stupid asshole with a tattoo (though still not as many people as some totally normal girlfriends of mine) and blamed it all on things that happened when i was a teenager.
using the same things as an excuse to not grow up, not take responsibility. i'm ashamed of myself but mostly ashamed my life hasn't been that terrible and i am still a stupid brat taking advantage of it. so many people have it so much worse.
i don't know where i am going and afraid that nothing will ever satisfy me. i can move to every shitty city in this country and onwards and date every kind of man (and really leading on and hurting some of them in the process) and work every kind of job and play every kind of role and change my wardrobe however many times but nothing will ever fit.
i dream of being able to fly multiple times a month, lately so vivid that i can see geese flying below me, the sun shining on their backs as they flap their wings. pretending to be content as different people could go on for so long. a deep unsettling is growing inside me as the years go on and still nothing feels quite correct. the pieces won't fit. lately when i drink i just hit a wall where i want to smash everything and pick fights just to feel something. i don't feel anything.