between the lines//MGG

9

hey! just alcohol consumption in this one but it's real brief. I mostly wanted to say that something bad is gonna happen in this chapter and it has to do with family, so if that isn't comfy for you, I'll be putting a * before the section so you know if you wanna skip it/skim over.

I spend the evening alone. following a particularly draining day, I run to the grocery store and pick up some ingredients to make dinner for myself. I'm craving saffron chicken, so I turn up some music in the kitchen and get started. Pascal sits on a stool by the counter and watches me with his little ears at alert.

"you look hungry, boy." I laugh. he turns glimmering black eyes up at me as if to confirm. "how about some peanut butter?"

I scoop some of the stuff out of a jar and lay the spoon out for him. he begins to lick it up. I watch him struggle just a bit with the sticky consistency and then return to my cooking. it already smells slightly like herbs.

as I oil the chicken, different thoughts drift in and out of my mind. I miss my mom, of course, but I really miss my dad. as much as we argue, I wish he was here so we could see old movies together. I have distinct memories of sitting on the couch and watching Charlie Chaplin make a fool of himself on screen. if it weren't for those days, I never would have fallen in love with film. I never would have discovered acting. I would probably have become an artist, then quit. I hate thinking about that.

I start thinking about what Matthew said about film, about how he wants to direct more. I miss directing in school. as much as I love my job, being behind the camera is just as fun-- if not better. and he seems so talented. everything he does exudes positive energy: he's kind and talented and funny. I feel my heart swell at the thought of him, but not in a romantic way. sure, he's gorgeous. but more than that, I just want to hug him and make sure he's always okay. he's older and sometimes I feel like he takes care of me; but I want to take care of him, too. that story he told me the other night hit me hard. to imagine him alone as a teen, even if he claims it's a good thing, makes my chest ache.

I think about Paget and her daughter, if they're doing better now. I hope Paget finds the time and I hope her daughter lets down her barriers. I don't know the girl at all, but I feel for her. I know what it is to wish your mom was around more.

I place the chicken in the oven and pour myself a glass of cheap red wine. oh, how strange things have become. I do want to paint again. every once in a while I get the urge to go pick up some supplies; but something keeps getting in the way. I'm think I'm afraid. even if I did get new paints and canvas and set it all up, I wouldn't know how to start. it's like when you have so many thoughts about something and in your head you know you're ready to speak, but when you open your mouth, you don't know where to begin.

I wonder if I wasted all those times in the art classroom in high school only to waste them all in the studio in college. I worked so hard for so long; I pulled so many all-nighters. years of effort, only for me to silence myself. I let myself be silenced. and now, it's been so long, I wouldn't know where to begin.

I wonder if my new friends will ever know why they'll never see more of my work. it's been years, but it feels raw and open and I wish I knew how to handle all of it. sometimes, it doesn't matter how much of a support system you have. you still end up feeling hopelessly alone.

suddenly feeling like my ribs have been pried open with pliers, I scoop up my little dog and hold him to my chest. growing up is so weird. I miss Louis XIV, too. when his real owner picks him up from Matthew's place, I'll be so sad.

I need a distraction while dinner cooks. Lolita taunts me from the couch. instead of picking up the phone, I elect to read. I still can't see the merit in this book; it just seems sick. but I have yet to finish it, and the ends of books tend to carry much of their weight.