Last night I waltzed in at some unseemly hour of Sunday morning and John and Genny's faces were lit by the depressing glow of some flick spinning in the VCR.
I wandered into my room to do me things, to write a letter (more on that later) to do all sorts of acrobatics with my headspace while the mundanes watched this week's installment straight from Hollywood to your door.
Then I heard Wynona Rider's whine and was about to mutter to myself in self-righteous disgust until I heard Angelina Jolie purr.
(up to now, I've been able to memorize all of two hollywood actor's names. WHy those two? Dunno. Don't much care.)
I begged them to let me return the flick today - finding within my posession a movie I actually really wanted to see for once (for all the self-indulgent reasons but if I liked chocolate I'd have that too from time to time), and when the movie ended for them last night, all sombre speculation on how everyone's felt a touch of sociopathy in them - I retched silently like I did at the sell-it-to-the-mundanes bit in "Fight Club" and wanted to scream anyway. With her.
Didn't want to frighten the roommie's poor girly, tho.
But John, never failing to remind me why I love him - burst into my room, leaving the door wide enough for Gennie to hear, with:
"SO how many times have you tried to kill yourself again?"
"17, was the official count"
Genny's face, to coin a curdled-milky term, was priceless.
She's in a house of psychos, so close one of them might touch her.
(don't worry about the suicide thing, it was necessary, it didn't work because I was stupid and weak enough to try it at the time, and even stupider and weaker because I messed up and the stomach pump was stronger than me, my feeble skin still kept too much of me in, etc... But it's all a lesson now and I don't ever want for it to not have happenned)
'nyway.
This morning. I tried calling my princess to come watch it with me, figured maybe I could handle interacting with the TV not alone for once.
Busy signal.
I'm desperate to start the movie before noon hits because I have Shit I Need To Get Done today.
I call Betsy.
Betsy and Greg, we watch this flick and laugh more often than sit quietly and listen to it, we, two crazed girls and some unfortunate, mellow young fellow trapped on a leather couch, pinned by the pillows we are beating him over the head with.
We had glorious fun.
And I, the Monstre-who-will-not-be-loved, couldn't wait for the carefree glee and fun to be over because I had a hole in my gut that I was looking forward to moping about.
Because a man who is not a man, can play mental aikido and send me crashing to the floor before I've noticed that I've lost my footing.
Because a poet, and infuriating dreamer, has seen the same freakshow as me, and has come out changed, and in some ways, understands what colour my faeries would be without me having to tell him.
And last night, after staying up with Yet Another Greg after the show, talking over hot chicken sandwiches and coffee at Picasso's, all the while me explaining Why I Don't Need Other People...
...last night I came home, and in green ink on a disused pad of paper, wrote reams about why I do.