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March 19,
2001
Okay, it’s
been over twenty-four hours, and yes, I’m doing that stupid counting
hours thing. It’s been
twelve hours, it’s been seventeen hours.
At this time yesterday you were still with him.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
Ohhhhh GOD I’ve gotta get over him.
I gotta find something else to take my mind off it.
I’ve gotta get back and be a normal person again.
I can’t stop seeing his smile.
His smile in the dark. STOP IT! I don’t
WANNA stop! Look, let’s
just wrap ourselves in the fishy cold wet blanket of reality, okay? He’s not gonna call because he didn’t get your number.
Therefore, stop staring at the phone.
And he doesn’t know where you live.
Therefore stop staring out the window every time a car goes by.
Just start channel flipping, read a book, get out of the house
and…. NO, do NOT go by his place!
Well, you know,
there’s a lot of errands I need to run, and they just happen to be
near his house in Venice…
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There’s
grocery shopping, need to get my oil changed, need to go buy a sewing
kit, and if I just happen to swing by his house, so what?
I wouldn’t go in. I
wouldn’t get out of the car. I’d
just drive by. To prove to
myself that he does exist. That
it wasn’t a figment of my romantically deprived brain. My God, just call Stalkers Anonymous and get it over with?
HE DIDN’T ASK FOR YOUR NUMBER!
But that…that doesn’t…that doesn’t mean he didn’t want
to, right? Oh GOD!
You’re just not gonna be happy unless you completely self
destruct, are you? You just
won’t rest until you make an utter idiot out of yourself.
One night’s not enough, the beautiful shining memory of that
moment isn’t enough, no no, you have to completely wreck it by
stomping every possible bit of what ifs to death.
If I can, I will totally and completely make an ass out of myself
if given the SLIGHTEST open door.
Hey…wait a
second. Little bits of the
evening come flitting back into my brain.
I think…I think I told him where I lived.
Only in the broadest terms.
South of Melrose, three blocks east of Fairfax.
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