rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

third week of post college depression begins. welcome to the Matt McMullan pity party.

I just got back from Bloomington.
when I walked in the garage, the family dog (Lucy, all 65 lbs of her) ran out to greet me, jumped up, and promptly hit me in balls. I doubled over while grandma told me to not to forget to lock the back door before I go to sleep. welcome home.
anyway. I seized the opportunity to move Mar down last night. we got down around 7 pm, moved her in, got dinner. then, I did the whirlwind tour of seeing everyone I wanted to see in 24 hours.
saw a movie with Mike and Dan. stayed at Alisha’s. dragged my feet all sunday afternoon, and came back.
to be frank, Valparaiso doesn’t feel like home anymore. I didn’t want to come back, but I didn’t want to stay in Bloomington, either. I feel like I’m in limbo.

my cell phone doesn’t get reception in Valparaiso, and when it does, the battery life is about 30 minutes. the Saturn dealership wants about 900 dollars to fix the oil leak in my car. I’m somewhere between jobs (oh, the stories I could tell), I have a neighbor who stands outside her front door and tells her daschunds to “make poopie” and I temporarily live with my mom.
jesus christ, I need to get out of here.

I could have stayed in Bloomington another night, I suppose. but that feels wrong. I was grating on Dan after a while, I could tell. he just started his first semester of law school, and he has enough shit to do without me sitting on his couch playing video games (he’s got this one where you kill demons by playing an electric guitar that shoots lighting bolts and bats at them. it’s awesome), begging to be entertained.
I could have stayed with Alisha. but she had errands and work. I would have been sitting in an empty apartment.
and I mean, come on. that’s fucking pathetic.

it’s been three years that I’ve known her, and I’ve come a long way. fuck you, I’ve come a long way. and in the end I’ve made the right decisions, or they’ve been made for me, by different people. hours upon hours of advice, face time, taken into consideration.
I’ve moved away. I’m looking for work, and I’m moving on, and I’m trying new things and I’m meeting new people and I’m growing as a human being. slowly. but I’m growing, god damn it, nonetheless.
and still, three weeks in, or out, and I think about her constantly. and I can’t wait to talk to her. and I wish I had an excuse to talk to her.
and then I see her, and I feel out of place, like I’m treading the same tired water, beating the same dead horse.

this is limbo.
week three.

Mar is back in the spot. Valparaiso shudders in nervous anticipation.

okay.
I’m not going to preface this with an apology, or an explanation. I don’t think I owe it to anyone, and it shouldn’t seem so audacious that I ask this question.

who are you?
I’m curious. I think, and I’m not certain of this, but I think that a lot of readers here I don’t actually know. we’ve never met, in person. I may be wrong.
yes. it’s assumed that I expect anonymity when I post an online journal. and I expect jack and shit as a reply to this request. but if ever this were a forum, a call and response on my tiny, rent-free corner of the internet, now would be the time.
so if you read this, and you’re never identified yourself, or you know I don’t know who you are (or you suspsect that I don’t), then by all fucking means, stop the horror and identify yourself. amuse me.
come on. you read this all the time. I know you’re reading this. you’re not me, you’re not the author, and I’m helping you out by killing time at your dayjob. I’m something you occasionally read after you check your email. I could be a minor amusement, or a daily necessity (I’m very important, I know). but you check here, after you delete your spam and update yourself on CNN.com. so the least you can do is give back. amuse me for a change.
I don’t want phone numbers and addresses, but you get the idea.
so come on, you self-important fuck. humor me.

Spencer, I know who you are. you don’t count, man. neither does anyone named Ashley. you’re all already way too real to be handled up in this motherfucker.

Matt McMullan has officially fallen off the face of the earth.

first job offer.
Imperial Valley Press.
hour and a half to San Diego, twenty minutes to Mexicali. low desert. hot as fuck.

we’ll see. I’m thinking on it.

“little bastard” – Ass Ponys

little bastard, all fish-belly white
wears gym trunks and a tank-top shirt.
when his grandma sees him playing with a knife
she says, “put that down, you’re gonna get hurt.”

and she calls him “little bastard”
and she says it to his face.
and he says, “Don’t call me ‘little bastard,’
Call me ‘snake.’”

little bastard has a re-occuring dream
that he’s a pirate on a sea of snakes.
and when the waves come you can listen to him scream
as the tide runs down his leg.

and she calls him “little bastard”
and she says it to his face.
and he says, “don’t call me ‘little bastard,’
call me ‘snake.’”