Valentine's Day sucks the big fat hairy root.
I had a little self-destruction session last night: plenty of coffee, plenty of caffeinated Jones Soda, and a nice little chat with my computer... I got two scenes written for my next play, although I'm sure they'll have to be revised... And I wrote a nice big long love letter to my belovèd Peter... Unfortunately, the computer froze up as I was finishing said love letter, and the computer didn't save the good parts... Maybe it's a sign...
It's definitely a sign...
I went to sleep at around 8 in the morning, and woke up at noon after a host of weird dreams. I haven't dared to look over the play again yet.
I spent the morning reminiscing about Valentine's Days of the past... 1997, I spent eating gummi worms and drinking Godiva coffee given to me by Erich. And I spent the evening in bed with him while my dad was at the grocery store. I'm wearing his boxers today. Not because I loved him - I didn't. And not because I miss him - I don't. But just to commemorate the fact that *I* got the boxers in the custody battle when we broke up.
Last year, I spent the evening with Meg and Rachel, getting really really drunk, burning a bath towel that had touched the naked flesh of someone the three of us mutually disliked, watching movies that we now cannot remember, and making what is now popularly known as a Menstrual Cake, which looks like exactly what it sounds like, but tastes pretty damn good. (It cannot be made by sober people or with any less than four cans of frosting.)
I missed David a lot today... Sometimes I just can't stop thinking about him... I heard that Everything But The Girl song on the radio tonight: "And I miss you... like the deserts miss the rain..." A long time ago, when we hadn't seen each other for awhile, he used to sign his emails, "Like Deserts... David."
Gahd, if he could have seen me over vacation, he'd never speak to me again, I swear... Last Valentine's Day, he and I had a little chat in his bathroom (I was totally drunk off my ass); he made me swear that when I came to Santa Fe, I'd never turn and look backwards to my hometown, never try to regain my relationship with Peter... Well, I guess I messed up his plan for The Evolution of a Happy Successful Helena.
I think the last of the caffeine is finally wearing off. I no longer feel high and happy at all. My mood is slowly taking a walk around my hometown again, wandering almost aimlessly past Risky's (gay bar and dance club), past Lost Dog (coffeehouse), past Boscov's (department store), and up Court Street to the Bridge. And there, my mood is pausing and staring blankly and painfully over the edge, begging for that little blast of wind, that push from a passing bicyclist, that would slam it into the giant ice cubes floating below, freeze it into an oblivion of not having to wonder about whether Peter loves me, whether David will ever speak to me again, and whether my play will ever be worthy of seeing daylight... Or spotlight...
I'm not suicidal. I'm avoiding thinking about being suicidal. Because I have been. And it is scary. It feels crazy, maniacal, like the swirling waters under the Bridge. I don't know what made that feeling come over me. And I hope to gahd it never comes back, but I think it will if I let it. Then again, do I really want some shrink poking around in my head telling me my friends suck and I need a new lifestyle? No. David told me that, and look how damn boring and unsatisfying my life here is.
I need to get going - I promised I'd help Mike rewrite his damn essay for one of his classes... I really should get paid for this... He'd be failing miserably without my help...
Always,
Helena*
"...I wonder what my body would sound like slamming against those rocks and will my eyes be closed or open..." --Björk, "Hyper-ballad"