theomeny

Julian Plenti – “Games For Days”

Silver wrapping paper, cut poorly, crookedly, seams held together by Scotch tape.

And I’m crying.

Don’t judge me so harsh little girl, you got a playboy mommy.
But when you tell ‘em my name and,
You wanna cross that bridge all on your own.
Little girl they’ll do you no harm, ’cause they know your playboy mommy.
But you just tell ‘em my name, you tell ‘em my name.
I got a few friends.

For reasons still unknown to me, and I know I’ll probably try it again, but right now, at this moment and on this evening, I’m thankful that overdose didn’t kill me.

And one of the things I’ve discovered?

You’re not a very good player.

You’re mediocre, at best.

Happy 26th birthday, you talentless failure.

I was quite mad.

I think it’s well-established by now that I’m clinically depressed. Thanks to my health insurance kicking in, I will soon be on a regimen of counseling and medication.

Remember how you said you always dated the crazy ones? I wasn’t crazy. But now I am.

Ha.

So now that I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m basically out of my mind, I’m entertaining a lot of thoughts. Crazy thoughts.

Like getting the Mirena IUD, not for the birth control aspect, but so it’ll stop my period. And for years I won’t see blood come out of me again.

And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll simply lose weight until it stops.

Can’t get much crazier than that, can it?

I thought of taking up smoking. Almost bought a pack the other day. You’d get a good laugh out of that one, wouldn’t you?

Oh that’s not that crazy.

How about this:

I thought of the conditions on which I’d take you back and maybe fall in love with you again.

HA! Now we’re talking!

It’d really only be three things: X, Y, and Z. Really. If you did X, Y, and Z, you’d be set for life. And they’re all concrete things, concrete actions, no abstract bullshit. Actionable things. No “support,” “listen,” or “be thoughtful” bullshit. These all begin with precise, actionable verbs.

X takes patience.

Y requires sensibility.

Z takes an enormous amount of courage.

X will not be difficult at all. It just requires some time. Y is a bit trickier, but if a spark of ambition strikes you one day, it’ll be over and done with in an instant. Z, well, that’s walking into the lions’ den.

You might do X. You might half-ass Y. Z, though…that’s a hard one. That’s the dealbreaker right there. That requires repentance for every action you’ve taken. That requires facing the lions and saying, “I want this more than anything. And I can prove it. And I will.”

But these are just the ravings of a madwoman.

I am mad, aren’t I?

It was the morning after the Really Big Fight. The one that started after I saw my then-fiance smoking out on the patio, right after he coolly said, “If you want to scold me for smoking, go right ahead.” And I did. And I was heartbroken, not because of the smoking, but because he had lied to me, to my face, over and over again. He spent the night at his guitar studio. I spent the night on the floor.

(Funny how he once accused me of being a pathological liar. But he can’t enumerate all these supposed lies I’ve told him. I can enumerate the lies he’s told me. If there’s a case to be made, he’s always been the liar.

But I digress.)

Anyways, so, it was the morning after the Really Big Fight. I called up my best friend and bummed a ride to the mall. In an effort to cheer myself up, I went to Belk’s and tried on dresses.

Specifically, I tried on this one:

And I fell in love with it. It fit like a glove, the skirt moved so fluidly, it was so unconventional, and it was eighty dollars.

I’ll cut right to the chase. Today I found that dress, just one left, in my exact size, and it was no longer eighty dollars. And it’s hanging in my closet right now.

Good luck? Oh, definitely. Does it mean something more, maybe a reminder of that horrid time? Well, that’s pretty pointless. I don’t need to be reminded. Or is it a swishy, pretty symbol of independence, that I’ve now earned? Fuck that. A reminder of him? Doubtful. Or is it just the cosmos saying, “Cheer up, Kat, have something materialistic?”

My mind’s not right and I’m reading too much into things.

But I am cheered up just a little bit.

I thought I was getting better. I thought I was healing. I thought I could look at my miscarriage and turn it into something positive. I thought I had something to look foward to. I thought I was going to be okay.

And I’m not.

I just want to scream, “LOOK AT WHAT YOU”VE DONE TO ME.”

“LOOK AT ME.”

“THIS ISN”T THE WAY YOU FOUND ME.”

“YOU CAN”T EVEN FACE ME IN PERSON, YOU COWARD.”

“YOU COWARD.”

But you were always a coward, weren’t you?

I figure by the time I type this, spell-check it for readability, and post this entry, the bottle will be empty. Spacing it out, you know?

Now I’m no slave to the bottle, and I don’t want to turn into one.  But I find a stiff drink helps me be introspective. It heightens my happiness, it heightens my sadness.  And it all balances out until someone messes with the scales.

The summer from hell isn’t over yet. We received some bad news about my roomie’s mother; she needs to go into emergency surgery. It’s a terribly risky operation. I smile and tell my roomie that all will be okay. I don’t remember if I’ve told her that before, right before her boyfriend’s father passed away. I probably did.

If I did, I hope she still finds comfort when I tell her that.

School was supposed to fix everything, school was supposed to signal that the summer from hell was over and done. It hasn’t yet. Granted it’s only day three, but is it too much to ask for our lives to chill the fuck out for once?

Why can’t we go back to 2008? When we were all happy. When I was in love. When we were hopelessly blissful. When we weren’t scarred.

Now it’s 2009, Hell’s on earth, and it’s staying for quite some time.

If there’s anything I want, I want to do well in school. But already I’m hit with distractions.

My attention is divided amongst three men: the man I had, the man I have, and the man I want.

The first may have stopped talking to me, which is a shame. I hope he’s just been busy.

The second is kind and attentive; he’s the antithesis of every man I’ve ever dated. He’s everything a good boyfriend should be, and yet I don’t want him.

And the third, well…we have a professional relationship, to put it lightly. Which complicates matters. And he is nearly ten years older than me. Now I firmly believe the five-year age difference between my ex and I was negligible; I was far more mature than him, and I was far more practical. But this man is seven years older, and I can’t explain that difference away. If anything, his maturity is beyond his years.

So he may be out of my league.

Which is probably true.

Because, apparently, my league is filled with jackasses.

But as I always try to do, I’ll smile and do my best to be charming, to be sweet, to be kind. Pretending to be optimistic, pretending that everything will be okay…

And no one will know unless they see me drunk.

And now the bottle’s empty.