Yesterday - Today


Freeway Therapy

15:47, 20 April 2003

My car is such a sanctuary for me. I can be truly myself there; I feel 100% in control; the world is mine. "I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul." Some of the only times I've felt pure joy have been swinging around curves in a road-hugging car, a rush of just-a-bit-too-fast and the unknown opening up before me around every curve. The sadness hits me when I'm in my car, too. I can't tell you how many times I've been driving nearly blind with tears, wracked with sobs that force me to pull over, scrunch my knees to my chest and rock in agony for a while.

Today was a bit of both. I'm really very into song lyrics, being a writery type, and so I often am very deeply affected by songs that I relate to. (See previous entry). I have long been convinced, for example, that Beck's "Lost Cause" is addressed to me. Today, that song sent me over the edge.

Your sorry eyes cut through the bone;
They make it hard to leave you alone,
To leave you here, wearing your wounds,
Waving your guns at somebody new...

(Chorus)
Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby, you're a lost cause.

There's too many people you used to know;
They see you coming; they see you go.
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy; nobody cares...

(Chorus)

I'm tired of fighting,
I'm tired of fighting:
Fighting for a lost cause.

There's a place where you are going,
That you ain't never been before.
No one left to watch your back now;
No one standing at your door.
That's what you thought love was for.

(Chorus)

I'm tired of fighting,
I'm tired of fighting:
Fighting for a lost cause.

While the initial verses are true of me: "waving your guns" being throwing up my defense mechanisms at yet another; "too many people you used to know" being all the fake friends I've known and spilled secrets to while drunk or high, but in the end "no one cares;" "no one left to watch your back..." being that none of those people liked or cared for the real me and ultimately, I'm alone. But the worst part, the true killer, is the change that happens in the last verse, when the listener realises that the singer has given up on the girl. He tried to help her but she was beyond help; he just didn't have the energy to fight her demons for her. My God. That may be the most depressing thought ever. Needless to say, I was a wreck.

I got on the freeway, heading for Topanga Canyon. The traffic was light and fast, but there were enough cars on the road to make sharking swift and fun. (Sharking, incidentally, is my term for the strategic video-game-like art of swooping in and out of lanes, between and around and past other cars--without being reckless, of course--with the ultimate goal being to get ahead at a fast clip without getting boxed in or slowed down. It takes a knack for the broad view of all five lanes, skillful prediction of the actions of other drivers, and a bit of gambler's luck.) I sharked it all the way to Topanga, where I swished it on the canyon's hairpin turns. I'd left Beck on the 405: a fun college hip-hop dance mix was in the player now.

On the way back home, I called Piyush. Before we parted last night, me like an ice cube sliding off his warmth like chill of a ghost, he'd told me to call him at 14:00 to wake him up. (Again, who sleeps that late?) By this afternoon, I welcomed the chance to call him so I could diffuse the psychotic sting of my 4:00am email. As the day wore on, that email seemed increasingly immature and reactionary. Or maybe, as I packed the feelings away in the back of my braincloset, the email seemed increasingly at odds with my current take on the situation. Because honestly, I'm over it now. As in: I cannot fathom how I ever let it get to me. If he came over right now I'd be the same as I was any other day. Actually, I'd probably be more chill because I wouldn't give a shit. Or maybe it's just normal to feel sad about something and then feel better about it after a little time and a few tears.

On the way home from Topanga, I stopped and bought some nice comforting brownie mix (inspired by Patsy, I think) that turned into gross, dryed out brownies. Which is what happens when you cook them at 400 instead of 325 because you're an idiot.

Tonight I'm supposed to go drinking with the LLM students. I know Piyush isn't going. Part of me thinks I should go because I said I would and because Marc will be there and because it would show that I'm not fazed by last night. But the other part of me doesn't want to go precisely because Piyush isn't going to be there, and because I don't want to drink and I think I'd be better off at home. My cellular phone fortune teller says: "Fire feeds on wood to heat the cooking pot. There is enough food and wealth for all. The Cooking Pot says Definitely Yes, and you are welcome." Hrmph. I still don't want to go. I wonder what my frying pan thinks?


Jack's the Shit

15:30, 20 April 2003

My boyfriend Jack White admonishes Piyush on his new album. He says:

Nobody ever told you that it was the wrong way
To trick a woman, make her feel she did it her way,
And you'll be there if she ever feels blue,
And you'll be there when she feels someone new.
What to do?
Well you know,

You keep her in your pocket,
Where there's no way out, now.
Put it in a safe a lock it,
'cause it's home sweet home.

The smile on your face made her think she had the right one,
Then she thought she was sure
By the way you two could have fun.
But now you're scared:
You know she's running away.
You search in your hand for something clever to say:
"Don't go away
'cause I want
To keep you in my pocket..."

Thank you, Jack.


Emotional Hangover

10:02, 20 April 2003

When one is hungover, one's stomach often wavers between nausea and raging hunger. This morning's emotional hangover is making my brain waver between depressive apathy and rising anger. Just as when I'm anxious, I throw up, when I'm hurt I get furious. Anger: the steadfast bodyguard of the wounded soul.

I need to get out of the house. Sitting here is just making me write more and more bad poetry, curl in on myself more and more in pathetic waves of self-pity and self-loathing. The emotions, now, have run off on their own. This is almost not about Piyush anymore. It's about everyone and no one, about the core of loneliness that shoots through all my days here, about the cumulative pain of every relationship with people in my life, about the interminable stretch of another Sunday of frustrating, paralysing nonproductivity.


Shoddy Poetry

08:57, 20 April 2003

Here are two pathetic and banal poems by me, your favourite cliche.

Easter

It’s Easter and we sacrifice the lamb.
We slay hopeful, growing things,
slash the throat of innocence—
nipping it in the bud.

A joyous day.
Chocolates, flowers, fluffy bunnies
and I am the painted brittle shell,
my innards blown out
by an artless child.

But I’m the one who slaughtered the lamb.

Piyush

A welt on my hand glows redly
where I burned myself for you.
A perfect risk; a perfect omelette—
you got both and devoured one,
as the other spoiled
turning rancid overnight.

In other news, I did forget to report that when I asked my cellphone fortune teller how last night was going to go with Piyush, it said: "Double danger: a gathering storm above and a swirling whirlpool below. A forceful No, and you will not recover easily." How the fuck does my cellphone know that?


On Impulse

04:16, 20 April 2003

Dear Piyush,

So you think I'm in a bad mood. Well, that's understandable, I suppose. And since I'm such a chickenshit that I can't actually have a conversation with you about this, I'll write you an email about it at 4:00am, which is always the best time to be writing emails. Knowing me, I will hate myself for this email in the morning. Lucky for me you won't get it until your ass wakes up in the afternoon, so maybe I'll have gotten over it by then.

OK, back to the point. I don't do well with relationships. I don't get on well with guys. I've never had a guy friend in my entire life. It has always seemed to me that guys valued me only for what I look like and not for who I am. Not that I know who I am, anyway, but still. You get the point.

So then you came. It was totally unexpected that I would like you. For God's sake, I didn't even notice you for the whole year you were at USC! And then we started hanging out and I began to like you more and more. And you seemed to like me. And not just for what I looked like. God, it was so new and so great and I fell for it totally. What a stupid thing to do.

Everyone has a talent for something. Mine is closure. I am an expert at locking myself away and feeling absolutely nothing about the most emotionally wrenching things. I finally allowed myself to feel something--affection, attraction--with you. Again, what a fucking dumbass move. Really, how was it not obvious to me? Your stay here is finite, I knew that, didn't I? And yet... I liked you and felt so much more comfortable with you than I had with any guy I've ever known... I loved spending time with you and talking to you and laughing with you, etc.

I loved it too much. Actually, I think loving it at all was loving it too much. Could I feel like a bigger idiot now? Desperate girl clinging to the stoic, unflappable guy. Please. We've all seen this movie before, haven't we?

This email is harsh, I know. Don't take it to mean that I don't like you/didn't like you/etc. The problem is that I did. That might not make sense, but suffice it to say that if I didn't care for you, I wouldn't be so upset right now. And it's not your fault that I'm upset. Circumstance is the bitch that smacked my ass. But somehow you seem to be trotting off with a smile and I'm the one left despondent and listless on the sidelines.

Like I said earlier, closure comes easily to me. And it is the safest. And I guarantee you, this episode has taught me a lesson. How is it better to open up a tentative and vulnerable heart only to have it trampled upon before it's out of the starting gate? Why is it bad that I have armour and protect myself from this sort of shit?

Today was such a shitty day. The whole way home from school I got more and more nauseous. When I got home I was sick all afternoon. I didn't think the whole situation with you bothered me as much as it did. But, apparently, it bothered me a lot. I very rarely feel things. I study them, understand them, experience them--but I don't FEEL them. The acknowledgement and expression of emotions is not my strong point. I'd rather not feel anything, to tell you the truth. Why mess with success? I've done OK in my 23 years not allowing myself to feel anything. This time, with you, I gave it a shot, it sucked and I'm over it. We all make mistakes. I won't make this one again.

It is going to be really weird when I see you after i send this. I'm going to be really mad that I sent it in about five minutes. Anyway, I don't know what you're going to say. You might be mad, you might be hurt, you might laugh at it, you might not care. If you want to talk to me about it, that's OK, too. I do want to be friends with you... but I'm not really sure how to go about it, since I'm not good at that sort of thing. And also because now I've sent you this weird-ass email.

I don't know. It's 4:15 in the morning, my finger is throbbing and I'm tired. Maybe we'll talk soon. Happy Sunday afternoon.

Cheers.


Last Five Entries
Cheeryface - 30 July 2003
Belli Denuntiatio - 27 July 2003
Weird - 27 July 2003
Runty Jew - 26 July 2003
Small World - 26 July 2003

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