dress better and polish my act

Friday, December 22, 1995
8:10am, train

I have a show at Sixteen tonight. I’ll read the sonnet, love letter, and MMM.

Maddy was confessing last night about Davis. How fucked up she is over it. Kept giving her anecdotes about me but, hey, what is relating about? Saying, “I think I understand what you’re going through.” It’s hard to admit that you’ve been a jerk, and the guy you thought was worthwhile actually sucks.

Realized last night I need time, privacy, and peace to work. Can’t work with someone else in the room.

Was in a complete Jackson and Ava hell last night. So tired of it. For Christ’s sakes, it’s been seven months. Enough. I don’t want to torture myself forever. Ava will never call me and I will have to figure out how to deal with it and salvage my feelings with the least pain, most clarity.

Later, work

I’m at my desk and it’s 8pm. I mean, I’m at my work desk. I came back to the office after fruitless Christmas shopping and my feet hurt. I had the urge to take Maddy’s cookies and blame it on somebody else. I should go over to the venue, but I don’t want to be too early.

I smoked a joint with Monty outside and he told me a story about bringing home a girl. He told her he lived with two people and in the elevator he told her those two people are his mom and his dad.

I can’t wait for all this Christmas shit to be over. I’m so sick of my mom and her needs and her controlling, manipulative bullshit. She’s so full of shit; I don’t know if I can stand to be around her, frankly. Her word.

Am experiencing massive urge to suck my thumb. Also, hungover. Thinking last night, I should cut out the drinking. It’s a recent habit and I don’t need it. Didn’t need it before, don’t need it now. But when I’m doing it, it feels pretty good. Also makes Ted feel better about having a beer if I do. I’m afraid of implicitly rejecting him.

Boy, my head hurts and I feel fuzzy. Was just loving brunch with Ted yesterday at The Dish. The decor, the people, the light, the food, our gorgeous waiter, everything. My hand hurts; I’m nauseous. I’m afraid Ted is sick of me, or soon we’ll be sick of each other. I hate his ex-girlfriend. Just another way to indirectly hate myself.

Usually, fill up my weekends with Ted, Ted, Ted. So, here with the whole Sunday ahead of me, feel strange and lonely, I guess. Aloneness is not scary; it’s good, except my hand hurts. I’m nauseous, and I want to suck my thumb.

Sunday, Dec. 24, 1995
5:45, home

It’s Christmas Eve. I have no plans tonight. Be by myself. It’s good. It’s necessary. I need to be by myself more so I know what’s going on. Not always trying to drown it out. Okay, I can suck my thumb if I need to. It’s okay; it’s a hard time right now.

Sometimes, I feel so spoiled and silly talking about ridiculous wants and needs, blowing so much money on pot when I saw a hundred people on the soup line at Tompkins Square Park yesterday. When will things be different?

6:15, diner

In a booth next to Ms. Camel Hair Coat, leather boots and backpack, tote bag and Williams Sonoma bag full of gifts. Smooth dark hair, pearl earrings, subtle lipstick. That’s what the Press wants.

I decided I need to dress better and polish my act. I saw yesterday how many of my clothes have holes in them, how impractical my aesthetic is for the office. I’ve never been able to move past the part of myself and especially outer image that refers to running away, to being a runaway.

Everything is okay at my apartment. Door locked, oven/stove off, nothing for the cats to kill themselves on.

I have noticed as on vacations and weekends that I tend not to write around Ted. I keep him separate. Sometimes I don’t know what to write or feel like, God, is this really helpful? But I’m eager to get stuff down where I can look at it. Just afraid how crazy I’ll look to myself later.

The way I look at myself last year and say, crazy. Painful to have been me in public. Everybody in on my love life. So foolish and desperate.

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