June 21st, 2007 (11:07 am)
current location: New Orleans
current mood: anxious
current song: Cashmere - Nerf Herder
It's times like these, when I sit (utterly useless and forlorn), moping and cripplingly self-conscious over some boy, that I thank God (yes, Jesus's God), for Margaret Atwood. God bless bloody Margaret and her man-hating feminist ways. I can read her and, though I won't feel a drop better, relate instantly to her pathetic, uncharismatic cast. Why, Oh Why do I sit by my cell phone, twiddling my fingers, waiting for some boy to call me, when I could be reading Margaret Atwood's sordid tale of business-love-and-loss? I could have "Jesse" on repeat on my ipod, I could sulk and read, I could have the freedom to be angry, but instead I wait and twiddle, utterly powerless to resist the call of my own self-pity. There will be others, oh, there will be so many others. There could be more now: I could hit the town tonight and smile at them, push out my chest. They will tell me I'm beautiful and lean in for a fumbling kiss that will mean nothing to me (*angst* angst* angst*...I'm convinced that's what the ducks in the park are saying).
So I cry and I cry and pray and beg and mope and am a pathetic excuse for a living, breathing woman. And I hate him, hate him, hate him, hate him. Almost as much as I hate myself. And I've ruined it; the damage is completely irreparable. There is only one solution; I am being marched forward, and I will eventually have to walk the plank. But I kick and scream and cry and I feel more like a child losing a favorite toy than a woman scorned.
But I sit and I twiddle my fingers and mope. He will call, yes, he'll call and say that it was all a bad dream and am I okay? What happened? Of course he cares and we'll always be friends! Plank? What plank? H, have you gone nuts? You've seen that pirate movie way too many times.
Denial? Puh-leeze. I can't even spell it.