flying with pot in my sock
Tuesday, November 21th, 1995
7:40pm, Wigwam Motel
Today I peed on a prickly nettle off Route 40 on the way to Route 66. Right now I am in a concrete wigwam with cable TV.
Ted is going out now to take pictures of neon signs. We only have two and a half joints to last us six more days. Today we wound up doing some good hiking and saw cool stuff and had a pretty great time. Although, I’ll be damned if I know what constitutes a really good time, and I think he’d be damned too.
Had a dream about seeing a blonde in a car, and seeing her do a Certs commercial. And thinking, “Oh big deal, she still sucks.” And then I showed her my asshole. Also dreamed about sucking my thumb, which for some reason I am dying to do tonight.
The TV is on which is distracting, also I’m hungry and I have a little headache. Yesterday stressed about flying with pot in my sock, but it was fine of course. Today, just as I was thinking, I don’t know how to live in the moment, I slipped and fell, which should teach me something about negative thoughts.
I’m enjoying the hell out of this whole vacation thing. Ted was finally telling me a little bit about Lauren on the plane. It seems like they’re not talking right now. I was relieved, I have to say, to have it more out in the open. I didn’t tell him of my suspicions and fears that they were still involved.
Flashed on Jackson a number of times today. Sometimes slightly extended. Will there ever be a time when I don’t think about things that are painful? How will I learn to think about painful things, which obviously exist and happen, without making it my life’s work?
I really wish we had more pot and that Ted would come back soon, even though it’s been less than 20 minutes so far. And I’m aware that time apart proves something about the time together.
Do I have more doubts about this when we’re together or apart? We have somewhat different aesthetics and tastes, so sometimes we will both be doing something when we’d rather do something else, just for the other person’s better accommodation.
I hope he never sees this.
Sunday, November 26, 1995
1pm, home
To tell the truth, I don’t really feel like writing. Letting myself slack on the morning pages on vacation was probably not the best idea, but okay. I’ll just get back to it and better than before.
Feel so much saner and cleaner now that I understand it’s perfectly right for me to be angry. Can’t wait to discuss it with my shrink tomorrow. Very happy I’ll be seeing her. Love my shrink. Couldn’t commit to I love my shrink, too embarrassing, dependent.
Said I’d see my mom this weekend, oy gevalt, now she’s all goopy over me because we “talked,” meaning the brief conversation we had while I was at Ted’s making faces and pretending to strangle myself the whole time. But I was patient and reassuring. Little does she know how little I said versus how much I could have said.
I’m just going to let myself think whatever comes into my head. A lot of times on vacation, I’d be looking at all the beauteous wonder and think, What the hell should I be thinking about right now? What am I supposed to think about on a daily basis, on a minute-to-minute? I need to get new birth control scrip, take cat to vet.
My hand hurts. This is stupid. I should stop now. Can I stop now? I feel like being stubborn and writing through the not wanting to write. Maybe the next thing I write will be remarkably worthwhile.
Got three hang-ups last night. Could be Paul or anybody.
To read the girl bomb diaries in chronological order, click here.