Writing Practicum #3

I didn't want to put this on my other blog-- the mostly happy one-- because I didn't want to drag that crowd down (all two followers). Anyway, I'm in a writing practicum for Autoethnography/Autobiography and one assignment is to write at least fifty lines starting with "I am." I plan on writing about chronic pain, so it seems more appropriate to place it here. If you want to see the other work, visit the other blog, which is not a plug, on account of I don't care if anyone sees it or not.

That said, I begin.

"I am."

I am alone from people but crowded by furniture.

I am like one of those pieces of furniture, passed without a second glance, not even an attention grabbing piece of furniture, I guess.

I am bleeding (literally).

I am picking at a scab on my head to keep my hands busy so that I don't crack them or rub my eyes and ruin my make up.

I am on a very comfortable but terribly ugly chair.

I am a little bit eavesdropping on a conversation across the building because it is quiet enough to.

I am typing this because my computer was handy and my pen was not.

I am actually spread across two chairs with all of my things because, if it so empty as this, I might as well make use of the space.

I am cracking my neck loudly and wondering if the people down the hall can hear it because it sounds so loud in my ears.

I am thinking about swallowing some Vicodin even though I'm not supposed to drive when I take it and I drove here.

I am thinking about taking more than one even though you aren't supposed to take more than one.

I am thinking about having Vicodin even though it makes me go a little insane and I feel nauseous and it's a vile drug that I shouldn't take at all.

I am looking at the people who walk past ignoring me.

I am not penetrating enough to get them to look back.

I am a little bit cold in this corner but comfortable enough to stay put.

I am dreading 6:30 when I will have to pull myself together and get to class.

I am looking forward to sleep and too much wine.

I am watching the person who entered my space and wondering if his neck is as full of pain as mine.

I am wondering how best to describe my pain.

I am picturing the scarabs from The Mummy sliding about under the greedy man's skin.

I am imagining myself floating in the ocean and strong waves colliding with my neck again and again forcing me under water.

I am watching the person who entered my space leave after he notices me staring at him and typing.

I am feeling a bit voyeuristic.

I am pretty sure it's justified, because he can read this- it's out there in the World Wide Web.

I am feeling a bit silly for saying World Wide Web.

I am hungry but there's no eating in the library so I'll just wait until class is over.

I am angry as hell and bitter and I am aiming it at someone who doesn't deserve my rage because I have equated him with pain because he doesn't ask me if I'm alright and I'm not alright and I just want someone to ask so I can break down and stop wearing this lion's mask of strength and just be the little girl I really am but pretend not to be for just ten seconds, at least.

I am in need of a good cry.

I am desperate for a warm cat.

I am feeling alone.

I am surrounded by chairs that feel like ghosts.

I am remembering that play "Lonely Planet" where the chairs symbolize ghosts.

I am thinking about being a ghost and haunting people, hanging on their necks like in ชัตเตอร์ กดติดวิญญาณ, Shutter where the dead woman is to blame for his ache.

I am feeling incredibly selfish and a little bit glad to be alone.

I am considering stealing this fantastically comfortable chair.

I am going to have to leave for class.

I am typing the end of this poem.