Today never happenned.
Last night, too fevered to think, I skipped class and went home, a baggie of "smurf-houses" in my pocket, and took a two-hour bath. I finished my book and lazed in bubbles and coughed so badly that I soaked the floor.
Then I got dressed again, ratty sweatshirt that felt like it was hugging me non-stop even though I'd abandoned it for those trendoid ribbed-turtleneck-with-a-stripe sweaters that I've been wearing to work.
I skipped the make-up. Fucked if I'm going to paint faces on myself to go see my boys.
I walked out into the cold and shivered the 6 blocks down to Oxford street (with a stop at Dad's Bagels for a dozen really hot bagels and a grape soda) to Marc's house.
We proceeded to play Everquest (for the first time in weeks!) until Marc, as eloquent as ever, pronounced: "Shit, the sun's coming up!" at which point I passed out shivering on the couch, covered in cushions (Dan's idea of keeping me warm) and waited for Eric and Dan to pack up their computers so I could beg a lift the six blocks home.
There was no way I would've made it on foot, and I had all this stuff to do today...
But didn't.
It's Saturday evening, and I've spent today feverishly dreaming. Remembering Marc on his landing as I stumbled down his stairs saying "Take care of that cold" and looking at the clock every hour going "six hours until Nick's play, I can still do laundry..." and not moving until the phone rang one millionth time (I've had a thousand conversations today and I don't remember with whom...) and I crawled out of bed to give Caspian the number of some guy who needs computer technicians...
Caspian would make a phenomenal technician. Here's to hoping he pulls his self-confidence back out of the bell-jar he's been hiding it in and impresses the fuck out of "Dave Danbridge" or whoever...
I'm shivering again. I think I'll go take another bath with a new book and fuck my laundry (well, not literally) and go back to bed and I don't think I'm going to be in the parade tommorrow but I really wanted to and there were so many people I promised to see this weekend and talk to this weekend and I was looking forward to drinking binges with the boys tommorrow and...
And maybe I've been running myself a little hard lately.
And maybe I'm still doing things back-asswards.
And Caspian seems to think I've got my life in order, but he's the one who's busily screwing beautiful girls (more importantly, they're beautiful on the inside, too) and flying with his passions...
And I'm the one messing up every beautiful opportunity I get by pushing too hard too hard and then breaking to pieces....
So this weekend is the weekend that never was, a white smidge against the vermillion of the past 14 ski-weekends and ultra-productive weeks that I've somehow blundered my way through.
This weekend never existed, and neither do I, and I could have spent these 48 hours doing something but maybe that bath is something after all.
I have this fire in my underwear, and no it's not lust and no it's not money or power... I'm still trying to prove to the world that I'm somebody special, and I'm breaking things all the way along.
I've got nothing to prove. But I'm cold and still tired and maybe if Johnny kicks me in the head in the morning, I'll make it out to St-Patty's day breakfast.
Icandothis Icandothis...
My litany is growing cold and tired to. I don't want to have to fight to do things anymore. I want to just learn them and do them like when I was smart before I burned all those brain cells away.
Before I traded blow for acid and balloons for shrooms.
Before I learned how to put that perfect clown monstre-face on and smile people into wacky conversations.
Before I learned the bitchspeak that turns a pint into a rousing evening.
Before I covered up being honest with myself with being honest about myself.
I have this long white wall in my room and I'm hanging my faces up there today.
Goodnight, monstre, no one can see you not laughing. Rest well you'll be goofy tommorrow.
Goodnight, goth-kitten-bitch-whore, you'll be angry tommorrow.
Goodnight ambitious young lady, goodnight cochones-of-steel, goodnight storybook heroine.
I'll see you guys tommorrow.
What frightens me is looking down, naked and alone and shivering and dishevelled, I have no more face.
Through all the people I've loved and touched and felt for, I've pilfered these dreams, my strength from Kim, my love from the myriad of greenies I played activist with, my false-ambition from the boys at Discreet.
But I'm tired, and I can't think. I'm sure I'm in here somewhere, I'll tell you about it tommorrow.