midtown is on fire

July ?, 1995, Crosby Street, lunch

Whose handwriting is this? I rarely recognize it as mine. I think it looks very masculine, because it doesn’t care if you can read it later.

Said I wasn’t going to smoke at work anymore, but I’m not at work. I’m a block away.

Been busy today doing the text for the new website, but happy to be busy. I’m glad they gave the website project to me even though the technical end is a total fucking mystery.

Maddy’s sulking because after work yesterday when they were walking to the train, Davis said something about them being “colleagues,” and she’s like is that all we are? He won’t ever define what they’re doing (or not doing, since Maddy says they’ve only kissed, and only a little, because he’s still screwed up over his ex-wife). But she’s not just a colleague to him, come on. She’s at least his friend, and a very good friend, unlike him.

I was annoyed at her this morning because she was being even more Eeyore than usual, but when she told me what Davis said, I felt like going up to his desk and punching him in the face. She almost smiled a little when I told her that.

Asked her if she wants to get high on the fire escape after work, she said she doesn’t know. I’m sure she’s going to hang around and see what Davis does, if she can walk with him to the train or if he’s going to be a dick.

How pathetic it looks when other people do it, try to make someone love them.

How pathetic I look to myself. Started to read this book over last night but stopped. Even things I wrote three days ago seem stupid and faraway. Look at me, sucking my thumb and throwing tantrums. I can’t believe me. I am so gross.

Thank god I finally got help. I still want to kill myself but it’s mostly in theory these days. Haven’t banged my head or hit myself in weeks, except that one night after seeing Jackson on the street with that girl from his class, but I stopped almost as soon as I started. I don’t want to do it anymore.  I don’t want to self-destruct.

Actually wrote something yesterday, not just scribbling in my little book. Maybe it’ll be something I can submit to the Press but maybe not, and that’s okay too.

I should try finishing it first before worrying about getting it published. Sit down at the computer and do it, like I did last night, and it felt great. Fifty million more times like that and maybe one day I’ll have a book.

Next morning, bed

I’m always in a kind of backwards race with myself, to see how long I can go between waking up and starting to obsess about Jackson. 7:22 a.m., I’ve already lost.

Cont., D train

Since I already wrote his name: Spyro said that Jackson was being an asshole Tuesday night at the No Bar reading, though that’s just Spyro’s opinion, and Spyro hates Jackson, for which I love and appreciate Spyro. All the pretentious people disregard Spyro because he yells and smokes on stage, and slam poetry isn’t poetry, etc. The nice thing is he doesn’t give a shit.

It’s difficult to be friends with guys without it slipping into that thing where the guy wants to fuck the girl, but she doesn’t want to fuck him, so she owes it to him to be really nice to him, which he can then interpret as leading on. I’m glad things aren’t like that with Spyro.

Bridge. The clouds are so low it looks like midtown is on fire.

I finally made an appointment with a hypnotherapist. She looked friendly in her ad, long hair and a leotard. I left her a message and she called back at work. She asked what issues I wanted to address. Maddy was listening so I just said habit cessation.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I don’t really expect it to work right away, I’ll probably have to have like six sessions, and it’s expensive, so I’ll have to space them out. But at least it’s an attempt. I haven’t tried to quit thumbsucking since I was nine and they tried to make me. I just pretended to stop and kept it to myself.

I always thought hypnotherapy would be the thing. I thought of it when I was twelve or so, I was elated that I thought of such an amazing solution and I couldn’t wait to save up enough money for it. I had it in my head that it would cost a hundred dollars, so that’s what I needed to get. But I had a hundred dollars to spend more than once since I was twelve, and I never did it.

Blah. I’m sick of thinking about my life. I’d like to think about something besides my life. Tired of being the proprietor of my own store. Could someone take over for me while I run to the bathroom?

(To read the girl bomb diaries in chronological order, click here.)