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 Indiana. Yet today, I looked for love as if I would never see it again. What began as some Pollyanna expedition ended up to be discouraging... on every fucking level... but then again, why should I be surprised? All year, these attempts to reach out to my peers have left me with nothing except a greater spite for my own generation.

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.