Helena, you know what your problem is? You've been listening to too much sad music. What you really need to do is dig out one of those mix-CD's with the dorky alterna-country on them, and play it as loud as you can through your headphones. And stand on the corner of Harrison and Division, and sing as loudly as possible. Your problem is that you haven't been doing enough of that. What you need to do is leave R.E.M., and Leonard Cohen, and Carissa's Wierd, and even Angelo Badalamenti at home, and you need to carry around Cibo Matto, and Modest Mouse, and the B-52's, and that gahd-awful Southern Rock you listen to. Stuff you can sing along to. Your problem is that you don't make enough music. Your problem is that you got used to happy music in the worst of times, you got used to screaming stupid happy-songs on the railroad tracks every night on the way home from work. And now that you're not so miserable, you forgot you needed to do that. You need to do it.
Watched "The Virgin Suicides" last night. It wished it was "Heathers," but it did a pretty good job of trying. If my memory serves me correctly, the very first time I met Eva and Marketa, they were playing the score from that movie in their apartment (later Norman's and my apartment, now Norman's and Will's apartment...). Decided that since the portrayal of SUICIDE didn't really bother me much (it was, for the most part, an adorable movie... I mean, except when they off themselves), I'd be homesick instead.
It's been a beautiful day today. I spent the morning shopping at Market (yes, MARKET; like, where they sell fruit and vegetables, and soap, and candles, and fresh bread, and all that stuff you thought you had to buy in supermarkets, but you really don't...). I got a cake of soap for my new apartment, an apple, and a loaf of bread. Then I bought some dollar-store-type-stuff for the apartment (silverware holder, shower curtain, that stuff you never think of until you're moved in and completely helpless). Then I bought some cheese and walked to the park for a picnic. Hell of a walk when you've just been shopping and you're laden down with armloads of crap. But...!
There's really not very many things that are as nice as lying in a patch of sunlight and daisies, 75-degree weather, blue skies and Doug Firs, with a cheese sandwich made from local bread and local cheese, and a shower curtain just in case.
(Okay, the shower curtain was not strictly necessary... But whatever. Picnics rock. You should take one tomorrow. Hell, take two tomorrow: one for lunch and one for dinner. Then find a good secluded spot and make out with an anonymous Park Pervert. (I didn't do that today. I haven't done that since I was fourteen. Uh... nevermind.)
Do you think it's really true that if you die in your dream, you really die? Just wondering... I had another one of those dreams a couple nights ago about the scary, scary tsunami that drowns me (this is like, the second or third, at least), but I woke up just in time. I think my subconscious is telling me there's danger in my life and to get the fuck out of it.
Didn't make it a week without being subjected to discussion of marriage and addiction. Hell, I didn't even make it a whole day. I guess I'm just going to have to get used to it: people talk about marriage and addiction constantly, and there's no escaping it, no matter where you go. Especially in June.
Oh well.
~Helena*