Second week into summer courses. Prating of the rain on my gray bedroom window, the smell of worms and stagnant puddles seeping in. I’ve been considering the Sex and the City movie, and a week-old chocolate chip cookie and what it might do for my taste buds. I would like there to be a “Refresh” button, as there is on a web browser, located somewhere behind my ear or any such inconspicuous place because I want to refresh myself physically, but more important, mentally.
Went to a concert the other night. An old friend / love interest was supposed to have been there but didn’t show up in favor of working late. She and her boyfriend need every penny they can scrape together to do this marriage thing. It was centuries ago I used to believe I was in love with that girl, and yet, I still feel the radiation damage whenever I see her. Cue strings, cue soft hued lights; there is a deep, balmy shudder that wracks my ribcage when she first leans in to talk to me over the din of a party. Flashback to five Junes ago, sharing a hairbrush microphone, screaming obnoxiously into our reflections on the black TV screen. Flashback to her making me play the love song I wrote over and over; imploring-pleading-begging to know who it was written for; knowing, I think, subconsciously that it was her. I hate admitting that I’m such a ragdoll. I won’t go to the wedding; it will only bewilder me.
If the girl who is getting married to the ruddy fool with the premature beer belly is, say, a princess – the girl I am currently committed to is an august queen. Smarter, funnier, more sensitive, more sensible, and cuter in an interesting way. I think all the princess has over the queen is a vague charisma, some ineffable charm, and the quality of being unreachable. I am positive that I am much luckier than Mr. Fool, and yet I envy him for winning the romantic affections of the girl I never could have, when I was an unwise spoony years ago.
The rain has become more insistent – shriller and less percussive. It sounds like full applause. The anxiety pills (the antidepressants) in the orange container peering from the kitchen counter make me feel like I’m some modern Sylvia Plath. Or some uninteresting gay version of her. I’m torn between taking the first pill and throwing them all in a bonfire under the purple June sky.