April 22, 2001

I wish I could say I'm so cool.  I wish I could say I'm strong.  I wish I could say I'm so positively absolutely right about the events of last night that I am winging through my day without a backwards glance.  Nope nope, who the hell cares if he calls.  I don't.  I don't care because I absolutely have better things to do than to wonder if he will.  I don't care if he'll call, and even if I spent a single second wondering, oh, maybe he would, maybe he SHOULD, then yes, that would be the thought I would settle on, that he SHOULD call.  He should come groveling, dragging himself over a huge pile of grainy shards of crumbly glass, begging with tears of blood to please please forgive him.  Please please take him back.  You're right, you're absolutely right.  It was all my huge misunderstanding.  I will sit on your doorstep and refuse to leave until you would ever so kindly grace me with an askew look.  If only I was that sure I'm right.  I know I'm right.  I want to be sure.  Does that make sense?

I know I'm right.  I will be SURE I'm right when HE apologizes.

So I try to putter around trying to clean my house, then deciding that is just way too pathetic, cleaning the house while waiting for the phone to ring, so I switch to organizing all the shit underneath my kitchen sink, nope nope, let's go through the six months worth of Entertainment Weeklies I have piled up, no no, it's gotta be something that's way too cool that you just couldn't possibly be interrupted by a simple silly thing as an apologetic dragging oneself over grainy shards of crumbly glass phone call.  

So I do tequila shots.  At 7pm at night.  I'm such the rebel.

But he doesn't call at 7.  He doesn't call at 7, or 7:30, or 7 fucking 45, or 8:30, or 9:57, and I'm just completely butt wasted and well I can't stay in the house NOW.