burn these later

June 1995, work

Judith is going to be away for the entire month of August through Labor Day, and I don’t know how I’m going to deal with it, but I’m going to try to make a bunch of other appointments so I don’t lose momentum.

I picked up one of those brochures for Healthy Living from Dojo and started looking through the ads for a hypnotherapist. I know how much better my life would be if I quit sucking my thumb, and I think I’m ready to do it. Scares me – I’ve sucked my thumb since birth. It’s one of the only things that helps me cope. But it also fills me with shame.

I feel very excited. I feel for the first time in my life that I can be healthy, that I will be healthy.

Now that I’m sane, who will I talk to? Who will I like? I still hate everybody. Maybe my progress isn’t complete. Obviously. With every therapy session I get stronger and clearer. I am so okay I don’t recognize myself.

Lunchtime, Crosby Street

I picked an extraordinarily busy street to get high on today, and the incredible depth of the crevices in the skin on my knuckles bears more inspection than I can currently afford as I am right now for certainly being observed by a greasy madman, as well as…let’s count.

Well, nobody else for certain. Eighteen people within eyeshot, give or take, including a boy in black pants, black vest, and white shirt, sweeping a puddle. Does he want to make the puddle go somewhere else, or does he just want to make it neater?

I’m fucking baked. I don’t care anymore. Let everyone smell it on me when I get back. I get my work done, which is more than I can say for some people.

Maddy’s always wandering over to Davis’s desk, waiting for him to need something so she can do it for him. I’m tired of doing all our work alone while she throws herself at that smug obnoxious alcoholic asshole.

I just hate him. Hate the fact that he treats her like shit and she keeps taking him back, or whatever they’re doing. Smoking in the hallway. Meanwhile I’m busting my ass.

Went downstairs to Ian’s office after work on Friday, he was about to head out and get drinks with Editorial. We sat on the fire escape and smoked a joint.

He’s still pretty fucked up over his ex. What did he expect? He was the Jackson in their relationship, always bossing her around, giving her advice, telling her she was too emotional. Sooner or later she’s going to get sick of it and fuck the guy who’s been hanging around pining for the past two years.

I volunteered to work on the special issue listings with him even thought it’s technically not my department. The more I overlap with Editorial the better. I’m going to start submitting to the Buy Me column, even if it’s stupid shit about where to buy a skirt, it gets my name in the paper.

Ian says they’re looking for something to replace Jared’s column, but I don’t want to write about clubs and nightlife. That would have been my dream job when I was in high school, but I guess I’m not in high school anymore.

Was supposed to go to the movies with Chester last night but he showed up late. Good, I thought, make it easy to blow you off without feeling like a bitch.

He was so apologetic when he showed up, he didn’t have any money anyway. I would have paid, being the older woman here. Better that I didn’t.

We went down to Biblios and enough people were there to pad it out, normalize things. He’s knows it’s not going to happen with us again. Like Paul, I wish I hadn’t done it in the first place.

A poem for Jackson:

I’m grateful
That the world
Is full of people
Who aren’t you.

Later, work

I don’t even have feelings anymore, I have impressions of emotional content. How am I? Well I don’t know. Let’s sit down and talk about it.

I feel like our life has gotten very secret lately, have you felt that? Has it always been that way? Look at you, sucking your thumb and throwing tantrums. I can’t believe you.

You can write anything you want here. You can burn these later. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Does anybody?

Relationship Park

It’s stuck you say, pointing. We sat
on the same hill the time I told you
I was leaving Paul for you. “Don’t
do it for me,” you said. “Do it for yourself.”
It was summer then, too, last.
Now there’s a kite in a tree.
Every time you say you want to be
with me or murmur in your low voice,
I concentrate on the kite and the kid
winding the string around more and
more trees in his effort to free it, and
I bet the kite turns up in your poem, too.
He should admit it, you say.
That kite is staying in that tree.
We’re watching it jerk, and now
part of me is really wrapped up
in wanting the kid to do it…

Dear Jackson,

Look, my feelings are hurt. I’m pretty mad, and I don’t want to talk about why because I feel like it will make me madder. I don’t feel like trusting you with my feelings. Things have really changed as far my feelings for you. I still think that you are a special and talented person, but I’m not in love with you, and right now I find it hard to even like you. You hurt me pretty badly. I’m not going to get over it right away.

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