Every one of the organs contained in my torso is currently outlined in a shade of salmony green. My insides feel as though they just made an attempt at building the Tower of Babel and are now ranting chaotically in different languages. It's either bronchitis, cirrhosis, or dehydration, or some combination of the three. I'm pretty sure I've got about three hours left to live. May as well write an entry.
The hang-over hit late: yesterday around three in the afternoon. Curled up in the fetal position to protect my injured liver, I fell asleep in the living room chair, a cup of red Kool-Aid and a bag of crackers next to me. I awoke to the sound of the phone.
"Helena! Hey! It's Aaron! Are ya home? I guess you're not home. I was gonna come over and say hi an stuff, and see how you're doing. DUDE! I heard you slept with Chris! DUDE! Talk to ya later! Gimme a call tonight! Bye!"
(Aaron tends to accentuate important parts of conversation with the word "dude!" before and after the sentence. Kind of like the guy in "Desperation" yells "TAK!" after every sentence... It's just an Aaron-thing...)
So, yeah, I slept with Chris. Ordinarily, I wouldn't put something like that in my online journal, but everybody in the free world found out anyway, so I guess it doesn't really matter.
We had planned on getting a bottle of wine, having a drink or two, and doing our laundry together at the laundromat. Instead, we ended up getting a bottle of wine, having a drink or two (okay, like, four...), and... well, I started playing with his hair, and that was pretty much the beginning of the end. And yes, I know, Chris is sort of a flake, and sort of a pain, and maybe more than a little crazy, but he's my friend, and I like him, and from the very beginning, I found him very attractive. And yes, I know, you shouldn't mix alcohol with sex, BUT! Even after finishing the bottle of wine, both of us were completely coherent and aware, so it didn't seem like that much of a problem. And YES, I know I said I wasn't going to get involved with anybody else who didn't identify as straight, but, hey... red wine and pretty blue eyes... And I don't regret what happened. I kind of wish nobody had to find out and spread rumors, but I don't regret anything.
I called Aaron back. He said he was coming over and he was going to give me a driving lesson. I'm determined to learn to drive before the summer is over. And then, for something to do, I called Peter at work.
"Hey honey... Just seeing what you're doing tonight..."
"I don't know yet. I heard a rumor about you, by the way. About you and Chris?"
Gee-zuz! How the hell did YOU find out? Is there anybody who DOESN'T know?"
"Is it true? Did you have sex with Chris?"
"Yes, it's true."
There was a semi-awkward silence on the phone. Peter broke it: "Carebear, you've got to stop doing this..."
"Excuse me?"
"Sleeping with gay guys. At least if you're going to sleep with people, make sure they're the right orientation."
"Um... Peter?"
"...This is not healthy for you."
And that was the straw that slipped all the way into the Coke-bottle and wouldn't come out.
"Well, aren't YOU just the pot calling the kettle black!?" I exclaimed.
"What do you mean?" he asked, either deliberately trying to infuriate me, or honestly a lot stupider than anybody thought.
"I mean... YOU really aren't one to talk!" I yelled into the phone, not quite sure how to articulate what an asshole he was.
I mean, YOU of all people, trying to decide what's healthy for me and my sex life? YOU, who told me on Valentine's Day that you were ashamed of me and didn't want to have sex with me because you didn't want your friends to find out... YOU, who have NEVER told me I'm beautiful... YOU, who made jokes about how REVOLTING women are, how disgusting it is to have sex with a woman, all right in front of me... YOU, who told me I was a step down for you... YOU who told Nathan I MOLESTED you... YOU, who told Ken I seduced you... YOU, who made love to me to Sarah McLachlan's voice and then told me you were in love with someone else and that you didn't love me... You, who lied about me in order to fuck everybody in town... You, who could get it up if I had a bra-strap hanging out; you who still made it seem like I forced you into everything... And YOU KNOW WHAT'S HEALTHY FOR ME???????
I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to crawl through the little phone-holes and stick pins into his genitals. Instead, I hung up.
...And emailed him later that night telling him, "If you cared so much about what was healthy for me, my love life, my sex life, and my sense of self, you never would have come back from Texas. You would have drowned yourself in your beloved Lake Austin and never come back to Binghamton."
It's rare that I get so angry. But Peter couldn't give a shit about what's healthy for me. I hope he only dared to say that because he's jealous. I hope he's jealous. I hope his little black heart is just rotting with jealousy that I've been with somebody other than him. I hope he knows exactly how sick it makes me to think of sleeping with him again. I hope he knows that the last time we were together, I whispered somebody else's name by mistake. I hope he knows it and I hope it feels like little pins jamming into his genitals. Peter never deserved me.
Granted, the Lake Austin thing was a little mean... but I think I meant it.
Aaron came over, temporarily relieving me of Lake Austin thoughts.
Aaron drove me out to some park, out in the middle of nowhere. Aaron handed me the keys and said, "the speed limit is 30."
For having driven once in the past two years, I drive beautifully. Of course, I couldn't quite get up to the speed limit, but DUDE! It was dark! And I had no idea where I was, and no idea what roads turned where... Dude! Seriously, though, for having driven a grand total of maybe ten times in my life, having been through three serious accidents, I am an excellent driver.
So I drove down Rte 12, out to the Spot Restaurant. And at the Spot, we sat down for a snack, during which the new hostess of the Spot sent waitresses over to Aaron with little notes written on napkins and placemats. Aaron, if you're driving me home, can we drop her off first?" one said, scrawled in a fourth-grader's hand-writing.
"Dude! I never told her I was driving her home! Dude!" exclaimed Aaron.
"So tell her that," I said. "We were going to drive out and see the construction on Rte 17, anyway, right?"
"I can't tell her that, dude! I'm a nice guy..."
"Sure you are, but whatever... It's awfully rude of her to expect you to drive her home, even if you do know her or whatever... it's especially rude of her to do that when she knows you're here with a friend."
The hostess sent a waitress over again with another napkin note. "Fine, if you're taking her home, I will WALK!" this one said.
Well, having already gone through my very last straw of the day, I had no patience left. I took the napkin note and confronted the hostess-girl, who sat there smoking a cigarette and looking like a stray dog.
"EXCUSE me," I said to her, doing my best Helenabitch voice. "If you have a problem with me, you can say it to my face and I can always call my mother to get a ride home. Is there a problem?"
"No," she said, glaring sweetly -- a combination that is very hard to pull off. "There's no problem. I just like to tease Aaron sometimes."
And then Aaron, concerned about Miss Thing-Hostess walking home, was JUST about to go over and tell her "don't walk home, I'll give you a ride, let's not make a scene" or something, when something very ugly and primal reared up in me. It was the instinct that is someday going to grab my kids' hands before they stick their fingers in a light socket; the woman-motherbeast instinct; the protective instinct and the killer instinct, all in one. NOBODY fucks with Aaron, and nobody fucks with me. I ripped the napkin to shreds, said, "fucking CUNT," and walked out of the restaurant.
Aaron followed, yelling, "Helena, where are you going? Wait up!"
"I am NOT going to sit there at the counter waiting for that bitchass motherfucking cuntrag to smoke her cigarette while she's RUDE to me. Just because you're a nice guy and can't tell her no, you never told her you were bringing her home, doesn't mean *I* have to put up with that, especially when *I* an a customer and SHE is an employee there. FUCK her. Fuck everything!"
I stormed off, out into the parking lot, out onto the highway. I checked my watch. I set myself a time limit of two hours to get home. Still aching all over from the previous night's experimentations with wine and sex, I took off, put my headphones on, and started for home.
First, I need to explain that I have NEVER walked that stretch of highway. I cannot imagine ANY sane pedestrian doing so. It's probably a good ten miles back to my house from the restaurant, and most of it is a heavy-traffic area, lush with bridges and overpasses and underpasses and sections with no shoulder to walk in. It looks like the freeways in El Paso. Second of all, I need to tell you that the only CD I had was Dido's "No Angel," which is HARDLY good anger music. I NEEDED good anger music, dammit. Some stupid bitch I'd never met was trying to seduce my friend by getting me to leave by myself, and Aaron didn't have anything to say except "now let's not get upset or anything..."
This is not supposed to happen to me... I'm wearing fucking Gap clothes and I work at a coffeehouse, gah-dammit... I'm hungover and there are rumors flying about my sex life, and now I'm walking home ten miles on a scary highway because a stupid fucking psycho likes Aaron and he's too nice for his own good... This ISN'T supposed to happen to me! And then, again, nonsensically, I work in a COFFEEHOUSE! I make deliveries to LAWYERS! This isn't supposed to happen to me!
I walked maybe a mile, maybe two, maybe even three, before Aaron caught up to me with his car.
"Get in," he said as he pulled over at the side of the road. I got in. I wasn't sure I was on the right bridge anyway.
"STUPID FUCKING PSYCHO WHORE!" yelled Aaron, presumably about the Miss Thing-Hostess. "I CAN'T believe she did that! I can't believe she did that to you, wrote that stupid fucking note, like she expected you to sit there while I drove her home and FUCKED her or something! Fucken, DUDE!"
"I bet her pussy smells like fish," I cursed. It's rare that I'm angry enough to start making slams about people's genitals, but I'd already been angry enough that day to tell Peter he should have drowned in Lake Austin and made my life a hell of a lot easier. "I bet it smells like four-eyed Susquehanna River mutant catfish."
Aaron agreed. "She's such TRASH! She's so NASTY! Fucking WHORE!"
We drove out toward the Rte 17 construction site, both of us calming down little by little. "By tomorrow, she won't have a job," I promised in a voice that was almost kind. "I promise you're not going to have to worry about her anymore, Aaron."
He dropped me off then, and drove off, probably still upset, but not enough to be speeding or anything.
Checked my email and fell asleep almost immediately afterwards.
In the seconds before sleep came, I felt an intense loneliness. Just for a minute or two, but it seemed unbearable for that minute or two. The worst thing in the world is sleeping alone. I wanted to run away and I wanted to be held. Instead, I let sleep take me. The anger and loneliness was gone with the sunrise.
And other than the queasy, squeezy feeling in my guts, I feel... healthy.
~Helena*
"I don't believe in, I don't believe in your sanctity, your hypocrisy..." --Filter