I went to Staples, sulked, and spent over $200.00. I now have a 19" monitor.
I must be compensating for something.
Now, here comes that unique, earthly loneliness, the one that stumbles into Jersey at one in the morning. I think it's the bastard what made Bruce Springsteen so full of blood and fire and hope and self-loathing.
Yet, knowing that it hangs here like smog over LA, somehow I always end up, here, late at night, alone, watching a movie - that makes me feel unloved. I'm like the guy in the horror movie that suggests splitting up. I'm the girl who takes her shirt off, because, hey, I'm all by myself, what could the danger be?
So, once again, I watched another cry-for-myself movie. You know, old standards like The Matrix or First Contact. Except, shit, the embarrassing truth is, it was Love Actually, and shouldn't have been effective - but was. And shouldn't have been watched - but was. The title - isn't that a dead give away? Laura Linny, topless - isn't that enough to break any heart?
This is becoming a sensitive subject, no?
Here's the thing. I don't know who to fantasize about. I should do a google search. I don't know who to pine for. I need to meet new people. I simply can't muster another lie gold-enough to con myself back into any of my present options. They're in bed with lovers, or gay, or, frequently, they're both.
I can't think of anybody. And, man, I hate that.
I'm familiar, and, yes, quite friendly, with Failure and Loss and Rejection. The old gang doesn't frighten me. I invite them in with gushing honesty. They never fail to bring a gift for my birthday.
But without a goal, I can't recognize myself. How do I know I'm alive, if I'm not activily fucking up on things that matter? In order to fail, one must have a goal. And when the topic is love, I can't think of a goal to dream on.
So, I come to Jersey to rest my worries and lighten my spirits. What does that say, pray tell? It says, pop another tear jerker in the DVD player. I elect Contact, or failing that, there's always Panic Room.