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Bad night spent wallowing in bathos and self-pity. Didn’t help that my inner boot camp sergeant kept screaming, You think you have something to complain about? What about all those people in Japan whose only hot date is with a nuclear reactor that’s about to blow, huh?
Called ______ to cheer myself up. Mistake. I had a crush on him for a while there, since rescinded – he is extremely good-looking and interested in me within limits, and he can be awfully amusing at times. We speak the same language. But I don’t think he realizes this because he has a chip on his shoulder roughly the size of Rhode Island and has decided that I’m somewhat to the right of Rush Limbaugh simply because I don’t hate people with money.
See, my own personal theory is that anyone can have money if they decide early on in life that that’s where they’re going to focus their energy. ______ and I made a different executive decision: We partied and we pursued Art. You don't pursue Art if you want to make money. Art’s economic model is basically a lottery – maybe one in every 36 million makes it big. You know that going into it. I don’t advise anyone to go into art as a matter of fact. But some of us have no choice.
Anyway, I called him up hoping to hear him say, You’re gorgeous, you’re hot – which he has a couple of times in the past.
Instead he lured me into an argument about the social security trust. We’re on diametrically opposed sides of the argument there – he cites Paul Krugman chapter and verse on the depth and breadth and inexhaustibility of the social security trust fund; I think that’s ridiculous because I happen to know that entitlement trusts are how the feds pay for stuff when they’re running in the red.
“God! You’re like something out of a Cheever short story,” he says finally. “Don’t get me wrong – I’ve read my fair share of Cheever. But it’s not me.”
I’ve been mischaracterized in many ways over the years but comparing me to a character in a John Cheever story takes the cake.
Hauled my sorry ass off to the movies. Scrap that precious, constipated indie! No, I went to see Limitless which was actually rather fun and brought back memories of snorting dust mites in the vain hopes of some residual high back in the days when I had a midrange cocaine habit. I didn’t say they were fond memories.
Came home.
Tried to work. Couldn’t. RTT off spending the night at a friend’s house. Just me and the dogs. Took Milo off for a long walk and watched the spectacular perigee moonrise. Facebooked with X-Boyfriend from 20 years ago, now married and in Chicago.
Tried to go to sleep.
Couldn’t.
Midnight came and went.
2am came and went.
I tried warm milk. I tried hot shower. I tried reading The Accidental Billionaires, the true story of The Social Network.
Around 4am, finally, I fell asleep.
Woke up promptly at 7am. And thought: I cannot do this anymore, I cannot do this anymore, I cannot do this anymore.
But what can I do instead?
Of course central to this dilemma is the knowledge that I did this to myself – there are just certain thoughts you don’t allow yourself to think when you’re in Romance Recovery, and I thought them. BUZZZZ! And also, of course, I don’t have the resources to distract myself here.
Did figure out finally that most likely the reason CF didn’t reply to my emails is because I was writing to the wrong email address. I’ll write to the right one and see if I can line up a lunch rendezvous for the coming week.
Distraction.
Distraction.
Distraction.
Called ______ to cheer myself up. Mistake. I had a crush on him for a while there, since rescinded – he is extremely good-looking and interested in me within limits, and he can be awfully amusing at times. We speak the same language. But I don’t think he realizes this because he has a chip on his shoulder roughly the size of Rhode Island and has decided that I’m somewhat to the right of Rush Limbaugh simply because I don’t hate people with money.
See, my own personal theory is that anyone can have money if they decide early on in life that that’s where they’re going to focus their energy. ______ and I made a different executive decision: We partied and we pursued Art. You don't pursue Art if you want to make money. Art’s economic model is basically a lottery – maybe one in every 36 million makes it big. You know that going into it. I don’t advise anyone to go into art as a matter of fact. But some of us have no choice.
Anyway, I called him up hoping to hear him say, You’re gorgeous, you’re hot – which he has a couple of times in the past.
Instead he lured me into an argument about the social security trust. We’re on diametrically opposed sides of the argument there – he cites Paul Krugman chapter and verse on the depth and breadth and inexhaustibility of the social security trust fund; I think that’s ridiculous because I happen to know that entitlement trusts are how the feds pay for stuff when they’re running in the red.
“God! You’re like something out of a Cheever short story,” he says finally. “Don’t get me wrong – I’ve read my fair share of Cheever. But it’s not me.”
I’ve been mischaracterized in many ways over the years but comparing me to a character in a John Cheever story takes the cake.
Hauled my sorry ass off to the movies. Scrap that precious, constipated indie! No, I went to see Limitless which was actually rather fun and brought back memories of snorting dust mites in the vain hopes of some residual high back in the days when I had a midrange cocaine habit. I didn’t say they were fond memories.
Came home.
Tried to work. Couldn’t. RTT off spending the night at a friend’s house. Just me and the dogs. Took Milo off for a long walk and watched the spectacular perigee moonrise. Facebooked with X-Boyfriend from 20 years ago, now married and in Chicago.
Tried to go to sleep.
Couldn’t.
Midnight came and went.
2am came and went.
I tried warm milk. I tried hot shower. I tried reading The Accidental Billionaires, the true story of The Social Network.
Around 4am, finally, I fell asleep.
Woke up promptly at 7am. And thought: I cannot do this anymore, I cannot do this anymore, I cannot do this anymore.
But what can I do instead?
Of course central to this dilemma is the knowledge that I did this to myself – there are just certain thoughts you don’t allow yourself to think when you’re in Romance Recovery, and I thought them. BUZZZZ! And also, of course, I don’t have the resources to distract myself here.
Did figure out finally that most likely the reason CF didn’t reply to my emails is because I was writing to the wrong email address. I’ll write to the right one and see if I can line up a lunch rendezvous for the coming week.
Distraction.
Distraction.
Distraction.
