a great apartment on Mars

Sunday, February 4, 1996
Noon, home

Ted came back early and is picking me up to see a movie at Chris Lee’s house. Even though I said I had planned a few hours of work. It was quote-unquote my decision to say yes, but he sounded so crushed by the idea of me not coming over until after the movie. And I understand that very well.

I must make the poor guy paranoid, me and my little books. And it just makes me sad to read People magazine, and realize most people can’t seem to make it work. The celebrities and the crime victims, they all wind up not liking each other and getting divorced.

That letter from Jackson set off all kinds of things in me I didn’t want to recognize, like hope. This could be the beginning of a new beginning, but it can’t. It’s just the same old crap and it’s painful to have it dredged up. Why doesn’t he just leave me in peace?

A good test of the relationship is have you ever said “I’m going to kill you.” It’s a white elephant, a great apartment on Mars. You can’t move it and you can’t live there.

Tuesday, February 6, 1996
6:45pm, train

You know all I can say is, thank God it’s not as bad as it was. Because I am angry and tense enough right now, and I’m still relatively cool compared to how angry and tense I really am. But am trying not to admit. The fucking train’s incredibly fucked. It’s unbelievable and I hate everybody.

Fuck Judith, too. You know? I really feel like nothing is good enough for her. And I remember when I first went in I thought she was mean. I should not simply depend on her instead of others. She’s a coach but she’s a coach I hired. She’s not the boss, I’m the boss. She makes me doubt everything. And how am I supposed to feel fine about being so in the dark.

My toe is killing me and I never took the full-on shit I’ve needed to take since lunch. At least I’m on the way home now. It’s okay to feel angry, it’s okay to feel annoyed and pissed off because the train sucks, and my fucking foot hurts. I can’t wait to get home and rip off my boots, and yes, smoke a joint. Is that so bad? Who am I asking?

I left the letter from Jackson in my top night table drawer. I must want Ted to read it. I mean, I know I do, but why in the world? We want to charge ourselves off each other like batteries. I’m sick of all the sex. I can’t believe I’m saying it but I don’t want to have sex. I love the company but not the sex. The other relationship was opposite.

I’m not a child anymore. I don’t need everybody’s permission for everything. I’ll write tonight, not just like this but on the actual computer. While it must be lonely at the top, Judith, you’re not my mother.

Why are other people so stupid and I hate them? Why am I surprised to find myself feeling this way? What, am I supposed to have a completely new brain overnight? I wish. I wish. I wish.

Friday, February 9, 1996
8:20am, train

Almost feel like I need to take a break from writing. Like it’s become just another tic. But it also helps a great deal in situations like the reading the other night, when I’m tired of making conversation with people just to prove that I can.

Wearing the stupidest possible shoes. I guess I did some writing last night, and I guess I shouldn’t worry about what I’m working on. Having trouble trying to get to the honesty. Or to decide how honest. Totally, I keep saying, for me. As specific and detailed and true as possible.

Told Leslie I was glad it was a blizzard because my horrible ex lives on the first floor and he has to shovel it all. Leslie said, Anne was just talking about your ex yesterday. Anne said he adored you.

I said, Oh, no. That was Paul, the one before Jackson. Jackson was the mean one. Yeah, Paul adored me. But he spent all my money and smoked all my weed. Thinking about his big public displays, his poem, “And Janice shall fill you up, and Janice shall set you free.” Me, cringing in the audience.

The shrink says it’s narcissism. Is that the whole impulse to perform?

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