I apologize for the lack of updates lately. I have excuses; I'm just not going to share them with you yet.
Presently, I'm depressed as hell, and I can't really explain.
I've been watching movie after movie on cable. And when there aren't any good movies on, I watch sit-coms. I hate sit-coms. Call me an elitist bitch, but I guess what other people think is funny just isn't funny to me. Most of the time.
I like stuff that's funny in a sick way. But then, most people don't find sick humopr very humorous. Once, I watched The Virgin Suicides with Jürgen, and he got so upset, you would have thought I'd shot his mom and his other two girlfriends. I thought it was funny. The movie, I mean. Jürgen told me I was sick.
I try not to be "sick" around too many people. There are really very few people in the world -- and probably especially Olympia -- with a sense of humor. I think I alienate a lot of people with my mere presence; I don't like to fuck up the rest by laughing at fucked-up shit.
A friend of mine wrote about me in her livejournal recently. She refered to me as a friend of her husband's from college. Granted, I've never met this girl in real life, but I thought we were at least close enough internet-and-postcard-friends to be called "a friend," instead of an old friend of somebody else's. It wasn't enough to, like, ruin my life, or even my day, but it's one of those little things that just adds to everything else...
May has never been a very happy month for me. Something always goes horrifically wrong. Or just feels horrifically wrong. It's sort of expected, kind of like the weird, sourceless smell of baked chicken in late September, or the let-down feeling the day after Christmas.
There's noplace to go in this town. There's no center. There's noplace where everybody knows my name, unless you count the Writing Center, but... I mean, I WORK there... And there are no windows. There's not a single place in the world where I could go, sit down, smoke a cigarette, and know I would see a friend to talk to. People don't HAVE friends on the West Coast; there's just no such thing. There's no such thing as enemies, either. Just casual acquaintances. Everybody's nice to everybody else, but really, nobody gives a damn. This is the price of freedom. One has friends if one pesters people all the time. One has friends if one has a cigarette to bum somebody. One has friends if one hosts a party. One has friends if one is incredible social and clips her short black hair into a cute little more-indie-than-thou style and dresses like the mom from The Ice Storm all the time.
I get to be who I want to be. I get to wear whatever I want. I can do anything without being subject to somebody's approval. Anything I do is fine, really. But everybody nods and smiles and has somebody better to spend their time with. This is how I feel right now. Unbearably lonely.
I would like to get a cup of tea. The peach kind, with honey and a lemon. I would like to walk into a coffeehouse where somebody fucking knows that's what I want without asking. It's been two freakin' years since I met a barista who could remember my order before I gave it. That poor boy was dating such a little cuntrag. I think she dragged him off to Yakima, on the other side of the mountains, to peel grapes for her. Now, it's: "what do you want?"
I want a peach tea with lemon and honey. In a paper cup. And then I would like to sit for just a minute and listen to the music on the CD player. It'll be something I sort of like -- the Cowboy Junkies, or Frente. I'll stir in the honey with a long iced-tea spoon from my bookbag. I've stolen the spoon from another coffeehouse. I'll tell all my problems to the girl sitting next to me -- her name is Heidi, like my dog when I was a kid, and she's never, ever failed to be here when I need somebody to gripe to. I'll order a salad while I'm griping. I'll pick the tomatoes out. I've always picked the tomatoes out. I've NEVER liked tomatoes. Do you think anybody KNOWS that? Do you think anybody really gives enough of a shit about me to know I fucking HATE tomatoes? Well, yes. A couple of people. Are they here? Nope. Everybody else sort of thinks it's no big deal; I won't taste them if I eat them with enough dressing. "And anyway, you like ketchup... what's wrong with tomatoes?"
I'll squish up the tomatoes in a napkin.
I'll listen to Heidi tell me two stories: one about her rabid lust for some boy, and one about some church outing. She's some sort of Pentecostal born-again Christian. I'm wearing the pentacle Rachel made me, but Heidi doesn't give a damn. We don't know each other's last names, but every time we need each other, we're here, on these stools right here. We will both think that we'll never lose touch, and we will take all of this for granted.
I will use the bathroom and leave. I'll use the side door. I'll walk through the parking lot instead of walking past the monstrous church. I'll go to the Grass. Nobody will be there, and I'll sit there by myself and watch the River and wonder where all the water goes.
Nobody in Olympia even knows what the Grass IS...
This is ridiculous. I refuse to be homesick. Lonely, okay, fine, but not homesick.
I have to go. It's almost five and I haven't eaten anything yet today. I have to go force some nourishment, I suppose.
~Helena*