26 June 2000 ~ I can't dance...

It's a little past midnight on a semi-rainy night in Binghamton, New York. It's about five thousand degrees in the house, and my skin feels like it's the bathroom mirror after fifteen people have showered, one after the other.

I'm drinking water and lemon juice (a little habit I picked up a few years ago after downing a couple shots of lemon juice to prove my manhood or something...), and clutching two big fluffy pillows with blue pillowcases. I think they're Peter's.

It's so hot... I can't believe how fucking moody I am all of a sudden. I had a great day at work today; even managed to assist the meanest, nastiest bitch in the world, who freaked out and started yelling about Bon Jovi and Billy (Bobby?) Gilman cassettes. Even Steve got pissed off at her and stormed off. I was in a really fantastic mood though, and actually got the bitch to calm down a little without getting pisses off at her at all.

Whatever. Now I'm hot. And moody.

Fucking, I watched Dirty Dancing on TBS this evening. I'd never seen it all the way through before, and the X-files episode on Fox was one I've seen a million times, and it's not one I particularly like, so I started flipping around and saw Jennifer Grey, whom I love ("YOU SPEAK ANY ENGLISH!???? ARRRRGGGHHHHH!!!"), and thought, "well, hell, I ought to watch this, it being an 'eighties classic and all..."

...And it really depressed me. Or something. No, I was already kind of bumming... But Dirty Dancing didn't help things... I don't know quite what my problem is; maybe it's lack of sleep, although I'm anything but tired. Maybe it's just hot, although even the idea of running through a sprinkler doesn't sound very appealing...

Three years ago this week, I broke up with Erich. That has nothing to do with anything, and I seriously could care less, except that I just looked at the date on my computer and thought of it. Maybe I'll drop him a line. And maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.

I wish *I* could dance! But alas, not even close. Although I've managed to slow-dance twice in my entire life without stepping on anybody. I don't think that counts, really.

Love stories piss me off.

So do people who can dance.

...Mostly, for the same reason.

I don't know why I'm writing now. I have nothing to say that isn't sort of bitchy, and I really have nothing to even be constructively bitchy about, so I suppose I'll go watch the rain for a few minutes and then force myself into bed.

...and I owe it all to you...
~Helena*