kiwifruit's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tore down the walls, walked right in and stold my heart Sunday evening. Listening to Joan Armatrading. Maybe not the perfect idea. But then again, I�m really enjoying all the memories of my best friend and I lolling about listening to these songs many, many, many years ago. So tis� okay as long as I don�t listen to the words too hard. I did Sunday things today. Laundry, a trip to Duane Reade for toilet paper, Q-10 wrinkle cream and other such necessities. Oh yeah, and I talked to C. Shit. Thought I�d slip that little mention in. Why you ask? As in why oh why would she do that to her self? Well, let�s see�this week represents my entry into stage two of breakup agony. As in I�ve finally started to feel the pain. Still running madly from it but it�s getting harder to ignore. So, Friday night when four gals were stuffing ourselves into a cab post-wine n� bitch session at �our� wine bar and pre-hitting every bar/lounge/club below 23rd Street, A.M.�s phone rings and it�s Satan himself�C.�s best friend who she used to date, who she is still ridiculously hung up on even though I have tried my very hardest to make her see the error of her ways doing everything short of spilling a lot of hurtful crap that I�m in the know about that she really doesn�t need to hear. C.�s friend who was always and probably still is the instigator in many a drunken night out with the boys. C�s friend who forbade me to see A.M. after he ended their three-month relationship and who I told to fuck off in my head and of course continued to see A.M. So, he is on the phone and she answers much to my and all the other ladies� chagrin. And he mentions to her that C. and I have broken up and she tells him she knows and I guess the big oaf realizes that I am in close proximity and that all his dirty secrets that I could spill are now dangerously close to being disclosed, then destroying the ridiculous on again and off again hold he seems to have on A.M. So, as any self-respecting 28-year-old male with major insecurity issues and several Jack and Diet Cokes under his belt would do, he gets mean. He tells A.M. all sorts of crap and alludes to the fact that he is with the �boys� i.e. C. and the rest of his frat boy Guido mafia. He tells A.M. that they will get more women in fifteen minutes than the group of us will get in the entire night. As if that is our purpose. As if the whole term �girls night out� doesn�t mean exactly that�a night out with the girls involving no men (unless of course someone especially cute and stupid falls into our venomous lair). So A.M. hangs up on him. But by this time I am in wine-fueled misery and rage. I swallow it all like acid and we go out LATE and have much fun. Wake up Saturday morning so angry I can�t even breathe. Start spewing anger in everyone�s direction (especially C. and Tom�s). Call my best friend in such misery she begs me to have my coffee and call her back. I call everyone I know and bitch. Then I realize who I really want to call is C. I want him to know what a fecking cretin his best friend is. I want to scream at him. I want to blast his world into a million bits like he has mine. But I don�t. I get in a cab and hightail it up to A.M.�s to lie on the couch wrapped in a blanket watching movies all day. Then at 7pm we crack a bottle of wine, weigh our options for the evening and decide to drag our numb asses into the shower and go out with some guy friends to a cheesy cover band to dance our asses off (low budget eve when they buy drinks). It was actually really fun. The thing is, when you go out to places with no pretense you can act like a total lunatic and no one seems to notice. My voice is raw from singing/screaming along with the band as they covered George Michael�s �Freedom�. Cheese factor � high. I�d be embarrassed if I had an ounce of pride left. But I don�t. Slept in another 25-year old�s bed last night (one of the �guy friends� we went out with). I am becoming quiet a connoisseur of New York bachelor pads. It seems they all have the same Ethan Allen furniture and 300-count Bloomingdale�s sheets. Oh, and of course the leather couch. No pictures on the walls except maybe a Godfather movie poster and a New York skyline pre-September 11th. Not to worry�I�m not having sex with everything that comes my way. I demand pajamas, a fresh toothbrush, a liter of water, contact lens solution and a cup of coffee in the morning extra milk, one equal. And NO SEX. Those are my simple shack up rules. Just means I have a warm body next to me when I wake up in the morning. Of course I have that when I sleep with my girlfriend�s too�but they won�t get me coffee in the morning and I never, ever get a backrub out of the deal. So�come Sunday morning I wake up on the Upper East Side near the apartment from hell (the final resting place of my relationship with C.) I shudder and get in a cab over to the Upper West. Cabbie of course has to take a route directly by every fecking landmark in our old neighborhood, including our old apartment. By the time I get upstairs I am a disaster. Sit. Stand. Pace. Sit. Stand. Pace. Go to the bathroom. Go to the bathroom again. And fuck it�dial his number. How was it? Well, it was very �adult� it was very sad, it was very civil. We both cried and finally I had to hang up. But all in all I feel like it was a good thing for me. Having not seen a photo of C. or heard his voice since the moving day has made me start to wonder if he ever really existed. Ah denial is lovely isn�t it? Yes, in fact he does, just ten simple digits and there�s his voice on the other line. Painful. Heading back cross-town in a bit to lie on A.M.�s couch yet again and watch the season finale of the Sopranos. At least some things can remain the same. La di da. La di da. 7:00 p.m. - 2002-12-08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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