Last night was for bathing; tonight was for turning into a pumpkin at midnight. To celebrate his birthday, Danny rented a screening room so we could all watch Teen Witch. Though the film lacked substantive plot lines, Sabrina and I were able to keep a peanut-gallery commentary going throughout most the film (Of the two of us, amazingly, I was not the one who fell asleep.) After the movie ended, I sent my girls home to make sure they were safe, and then I took a taxi home-ish. Close enough. I couldn't really bear to head home to an empty house. I felt low, so I went out some more just so I wasn't alone with my loneliness.
It turns out that hobbling in a temporary cast draws people to you just as much as a regular one does, which made me fairly popular. I didn't care. I didn't even notice when I was being chatted up, and even then, any responses I gave were out of politeness and propriety rather than interest. I must not have been very good at it, because all of the people who approached me either went outside for oxygen (so they said) or were left behind after I realized the whole thing was pointless. I could see a thousand faces and think of only one.
I talked with a girl from Peru. She grew up in Lima, moved here a few years ago. Do you know the Wong supermarkets, I asked her. She did. I told her about Cecilia, whose family owns the markets. After a moment of recognition, there was nothing else to talk about. She asked my age, and I was too lazy to make her guess 31. She said I looked 25; I correctly guessed she was 24. When she found out my age, I silently laughed, because at 25, 31-year-olds seemed so much older and more mature to me. I'm not convinced that it's so. I wanted to tell her that I don't have the answers. It's nice to think that maturity comes with age, but it doesn't always. Or maybe it does, because you think about what you can and can't do, and you choose the more difficult road. I can't say. I don't want to be alone, but I want to be left alone, if that makes any sense.
I managed to get myself home by following the vertical lines of sidewalk. I feel terrible like I haven't in years, but there's something about it that feels like the right thing. Like I have to go through all of this so I can look back at it and smile and think, "Oh, those were low days." It's my first night of walking, and I made the most of it. Which is about all you can hope for right now. You settle not for second best, for fourth or fifth best because you can't have what you want. That is perfectly understandable; it is acceptable and maybe forgivable. We'll see tomorrow, when I sink myself into sensory deprivation. I will float in salted water, push my sight into darkness, hear nothing but silence, and sleep with my eyes open. (This is, of course, assuming that I wake up on time and make it to the floaty tanks in time.) As for now, I feel sick and it's all my own fault.
It turns out that hobbling in a temporary cast draws people to you just as much as a regular one does, which made me fairly popular. I didn't care. I didn't even notice when I was being chatted up, and even then, any responses I gave were out of politeness and propriety rather than interest. I must not have been very good at it, because all of the people who approached me either went outside for oxygen (so they said) or were left behind after I realized the whole thing was pointless. I could see a thousand faces and think of only one.
I talked with a girl from Peru. She grew up in Lima, moved here a few years ago. Do you know the Wong supermarkets, I asked her. She did. I told her about Cecilia, whose family owns the markets. After a moment of recognition, there was nothing else to talk about. She asked my age, and I was too lazy to make her guess 31. She said I looked 25; I correctly guessed she was 24. When she found out my age, I silently laughed, because at 25, 31-year-olds seemed so much older and more mature to me. I'm not convinced that it's so. I wanted to tell her that I don't have the answers. It's nice to think that maturity comes with age, but it doesn't always. Or maybe it does, because you think about what you can and can't do, and you choose the more difficult road. I can't say. I don't want to be alone, but I want to be left alone, if that makes any sense.
I managed to get myself home by following the vertical lines of sidewalk. I feel terrible like I haven't in years, but there's something about it that feels like the right thing. Like I have to go through all of this so I can look back at it and smile and think, "Oh, those were low days." It's my first night of walking, and I made the most of it. Which is about all you can hope for right now. You settle not for second best, for fourth or fifth best because you can't have what you want. That is perfectly understandable; it is acceptable and maybe forgivable. We'll see tomorrow, when I sink myself into sensory deprivation. I will float in salted water, push my sight into darkness, hear nothing but silence, and sleep with my eyes open. (This is, of course, assuming that I wake up on time and make it to the floaty tanks in time.) As for now, I feel sick and it's all my own fault.
Labels: emo spice
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