love’s a private party 2.14.03
In
past years, Valentines Day has entailed jerking off into a Hallmark card then
sending it to my grandmother in
I am beginning to accept this truly hostile belief that you can only love a
certain number of people. Otherwise, it's like you become the host of this
party... and you're pacing furiously around the punchbowl counting the number
of heads, trying to refill their drinks so they stick around. Then the room
overcrowds... you start to forget the names of people... in fact, you're too
drunk to remember your own. You're overcome with nausea and all you want to do
is go outside and light a fucking cigarette... Alone.
Problem is that by the time you finish smoking, it so frigid that you lose all
feeling in your face... feet... fingers. So you return to the party. The room
has vacated. You figure everyone must have left through some trick door. The
sound of your own voice turns into sheer agony. Maybe if they hadn't left the
room in such a mess, you wouldn't take it so personally. Maybe you're wishing
that you would have just put up with them. And maybe you wish you hadn't thrown
the party at all.
I don't know why it has to be so difficult. Most of the time, I'm training
myself to stay outside forever... but this cannot go on. As I said before, it's
far too glacial... far too black and white. And I miss colors. A lot.
So perhaps it's time to clean up the mess.