04 October 2000 ~ Helena's guide to procrastination...

Woke up with "November Rain" in my head. I know -- it's not November, and I don't even like that song anyway, but it somehow seemed to fit the mood of the day so far...

I first woke up at 8.01 in the morning. The phone was ringing viciously and my answering machine wasn't picking up, so I scrambled out of bed to answer. Early-morning (yes, that's early morning to me) phone calls scare me: it either means somebody's dying, or I've got to tell another telemarketer never to call my number again.

"Hello?"

"Is Jacqueline there?"

"No, there's no one here by that name."

"Well, I met this girl at a club one night and she gave me this number... Do you live with anybody else who might have given out your number?"

"No... the only other person who ever stays here is a guy..."

(At this point, you'd think the guy would say he was sorry for dialling the wrong number, but he kept going...)

"So you live with your boyfriend?"

Baffled, I answered, "No, Peter's not my boyfriend..."

"So YOU are single then?"

I got really bitchy with him. This guy wakes me up at 8.01 in the morning because he's horny and is looking for Jacqueline, and if he can't find Jacqueline, any anonymous voice over the phone will do? "No, as a matter of fact, I'm NOT single... Thank you for your call, sir." Click.

If I ever get my hands on this Jacqueline cunt, I'm going to choke her. Dude, if you're going to give out my number, a least give it to nice people, not skeezy ones...

The guy proceeded to call me BACK and hang up on my answering machine. Jerk.

It's rainy, I'm premenstrual, and it feels like a Sunday in November. I've got to go to the grocery store (orange juice concentrate, Perrier, dish detergent, city garbage bags), but I don't feel like moving, much less leaving the house. Lunch today shall be Peter's bag of almond M&M's which he conveniently left by my computer. I don't even feel like eating; the downstairs people cooked something heinous that smells like Corn Chex and snot in a creamy garlic sauce. I finished the book I was reading, which was excellent, and have post-good-book-letdown. I have neither the energy nor the inclination to begin a new one. Am considering lending my TV to my mother for awhile because hers is broken and I only pick up one station (granted, it's CBS, and I do enjoy Letterman, but having a TV that doesn't receive regular transmissions of the X-files is a worthless piece of equipment...).

Neil emailed me yesterday. Said something about being in love with me and having known it since the day I kissed him in David's apartment... ...Although I never DID kiss Neil in David's apartment. I could have, but I didn't. Neil and I only ever kissed once, behind the library, and it only lasted about a quarter of a second. He tasted like Camel Lights from the Nice-n-Sleazy on Exchange Street. I suppose I don't mind Neil being in love with me. After all, he's 3,000 miles away, probably having coffee and cherry pie right now in Twede's Café.

Wrote my mother the longest email I've ever written, last night. Apologized for always thinking I'm immune to being taken advantage of, but that I still believe it. Told her nothing's REALLY changed since I was 14, except that I'm taller and older and more likely to be believed when I say I'm immune to being taken advantage of. My mom is really cool. I'll have to take her out to play pool some night when I don't have to work and I'm less cranky.

Was told by an older guy last night in a restaurant that God loves me. "God loves you, honey," he said, and kissed the top of my head before leaving the room. It was bizarre. Norman and I had been discussing God all night the night before -- whether or not to argue philosophical points with street-corner fundamentalists or to smile and take their pamphlet and recycle it as soon as you're out of sight. I opted for the latter because I'm not well-versed or eloquent enough to engage in the former. If God-dogma makes you happy, great, and that's fine with me, and if telling me that God loves me makes you happy, that's fine with me too, though I'm more inclined to believe Ronald Reagan is tapping my phone than that a large hairy Jewish-looking guy in the sky is clutching a picture of me and thinking, "gee, Helena's great."

I just looked up at the mass of post-it notes and business cards tacked to my wall, and felt very much like eating chocolate-covered hazelnuts. I think there may be some subconscious link, but I'm not entirely sure.

Perhaps I've never said this in this journal before, although I know I've said it elsewhere... When I die, I would like my body to be cremated. I abhor the idea of being shut up in the ground, even though I don't believe that dead bodies are conscious of their predicaments. Neither can I imagine my body spending eternity in an urn on somebody's mantle. And so I would request that my loved ones take my ashes on a road trip, to places I had seen and found beautiful. I don't suppose I would know the difference -- when you're dead, it doesn't matter what happens to your body as long as it doesn't lay around in the streets getting moldy. But it would be my final gift to my loved ones; the chance to see beautiful things that I had seen.

The Corn Chex and snot smell from downstairs is slowly subsiding.

I'm just rambling -- this entry has no purpose whatsoever except to occupy my time so that I don't have to move or leave the house. Or worse yet, clean.

I love you all. Eat your vegetables.
~Helena*