what day is today?
Saturday 5 February 2005 | I like a cookie
Sadly enough last time I erased, or rather typed over and then re-saved, the real entry from 1.05.05, which was me spazzing out, ranting and raving because I’d misunderstood N.’s using his credit card on a phone sex line on New Year’s Eve as being actually talking to a live woman and getting off with her, and thus being unfaithful to me. Wait—is that date right!? I’m suddenly confused, thinking 12/30 or 12/31 was not the night he’d left me Chez Zen and gone home sad and lonely, it was a few days later, because he told me the morning after, which was—4 January. But on my phone bill it said 12/30 or 31—going to check right now. q 111111111111111111zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzyhnggyhgf
[That was the cat, who doesn’t know keyboards aren’t for walking on, thus necessitating a hard reboot.]
Yes, it was 12:14 am December 31. That means it was the night of December 30, and I have no idea what transpired between us that night, only it probably wasn’t good, and we were both probably very hurt and angry. And now I have something new to be upset about. Or not. I think I’ll choose not. He’s going to SA meetings, he promises, and that’s all I’ve got to go on right now.
“In this dark place there must be poems nestling, nesting, stirring in the basement. Baby hatching pit vipers maybe. Something to leave me loveable, liveable.”
Do I still believe this?
I’ll have tea with the Film Critic tomorrow and wonder if I should try to get anything out of him other than sheer nerdiness, Douglas Adams and Monty Python quotations. Wonder if I should bother.
If N. called some 1-800 number on the night of December 30, then showed up “tipsy” to spend New Year’s Eve with me, then was depressed the morning of January 5, claiming that the night before he’d used his credit card for the first time—? In which she can’t let it go. Gets that now-familiar adrenaline rush, stomach churning, heart pounding, short of breath, weak-kneed feeling. Is it addictive in its own right? Do I have a right to know everything, to know when he’s lying, what? Am I going to have more weird phone bills, a weird cellphone bill, what.
Where is the bottom.
I thought it was today, when his landlady served him an eviction notice. I’ve thought lots of things before.
Anyway he’s out of the house and not using my utilities or mailbox or name or phone or this space, and I feel protective of it even more than ever, this casita, mine for another month, with stone floors and vigas and two duvets and the Possum and now Eloise. Who just stalked up onto the kiva fireplace ledge, delicately pulled the plastic daisies (found in the snow) out of the pueblo pot my mom bought me, and than sprang down onto the floor with them held gingerly but precisely between her teeth. She makes me laugh, even if she can’t cook me dinner, and that’s a good thing.
Back to N., inevitably. What am I going to do, what do I need, what is the right thing for me, how can I decide, who will help me, there are no end to these questions. I’m very unwell, that much is clear—I’m underweight and dyspeptic and had a violent turn just last night as N. tried to get me to eat an omelette he’d made and placed inside a tortilla, with black beans alongside. Suddenly in the middle of it I felt strangely nauseated; confused, swallowed a Zantac with too much water; then felt vilely ill and nearly horked, because it took me so by surprise I couldn’t fight it. And I was so exhausted. Slept from 11 to 8, only waking twice—once when Weetzie meowed loudly, around 2 or 3, and then again when she horked herself, on the bathroom floor, sometime later, 6 or 7. Tonight my goal is to be abed by 8 and asleep by 9, because I know I’ll wake early, so I might as well try to sleep sooner.
I want to shout at him. I want to get angry and demand things. I want to know the bottom. I want to wave phone bills at him and say where does it stop, tell me, goddammit. I don’t care how bad it is, I just want to know it all. You can’t be naked with me ever again until I know it all. He says that’s what he wants, to be unclothed and sensual and physical and playful and intimate. But intimate includes not lying, right? And not being sucker-punched every other day with some new horror?
I wish I had an obligation-free week just to hole up in here and not emerge. The way things are going right now I won’t have an obligation-free week until maybe August, if then—if I sit ango and then go straight into grad school I should have an obligation-free week right about mid-December 2005. That’s only 11 more months.
Fuck.
The devil was never more charming. That’s how addicts are, right? Blonde and blue-green-eyed and cherubic, with a beauty mark to the left of their curved upper lip and a trick of smiling so your heart melts one more time.
I’m so tired.
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