old friends

One fine night back in March 2008, a bunch of old friends managed to get together at a bar. Some hadn't seen each other in years. Some had been in some silent war or grudge which prevented them from speaking. Others had recently fallen in love, others out. Some had plans to move back to America. Some had plans to move away. Some were horribly lonely and in need of a good time. But for a good hour or so, all of them were devilishly happy. Those who were down and out remembered that we're all in the gutter together. They laughed, knocked back a few drinks, and went home smiling. For the most part.

Cathartic

You probably think I'm miserable all the time. What a sensitive creature. So fragile and pathetic. But I'm not. I would rather not talk to you if you are just calling to say that you aren't coming home. Music blaring in the background. The voices of your bandmates. I would rather not talk to you because I've been in a good mood all day since we parted ways after lunch. And then you call and boom. Now I'm angry. I wish you didn't have that power over me. I hope in your next life you get to be with someone who's totally preoccupied with her bands. Who leaves you every weekend. Who's only in town half the time.

Your bandmates. I hope you like them a lot, because they're going to be the only thing you've got.

I'm sorry, though. Sorry I'm so full of anger. I guess you never really intended for me to hurt, and never really understood why I turn off the moment you say something that upsets me. Quizzical. Why I cannot look you in the eye. Why I answer all of your questions with either silence or a dead-tone one word answer.

So I guess I don't know how it's done - being my boyfriend. I couldn't tell you. It probably seems like everything falls under scrutiny. So you ignore it. You don't respond to my messages and I don't say them to your face. So we cast this silent war. SMS's, emails, silent lunches. Weekends with you in other cities.

Last weekend I got so drunk off the tall drinks and the graduated cylinders of Jagermeister that looked like blood, carried around by those girls in the skimpy little red cheerleader things, that I almost left this world the following day. I had to come back into the city in the morning to stroll around [read: teach English] with some important guy from Coca-Cola, he got me a slice of the salmon/broccoli kish and i touched it once with my fork and I had to excuse myself to go the bathroom. Sweating, heart racing, I washed my hands and swore to myself that I would not puke on this nice man in that cafe. Two hours later when he let me go, I got on the metro - rode until I got to Electrosila and had to get off. Again, heart started pumping and I stood up suddenly, as if something bad had happened. Breathing hard and standing near the doors. Wishing the people leaning on either sides of the doors would move away, in case the vomit starting flying. I tried to focus my thoughts, deep breath. Just a couple more seconds. Take it easy, now. Get off - walk around the platform until I think I'm ready for the escalator. OK, here we go. 2 minutes later I'm out. AIR. snow. sleet. cold. Don't care. I walk. I walk the 5 kilometers home along the highway.