Into the void...
“That night she sat for hours, too numb even to drink, teaching herself to breathe in a vacuum. For this, oh God, was the void. There was nobody who could help her. Nobody in the world. They were all on something, mad, possible enemies, dead.”
-Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
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2002-11-14
4:10 p.m.
Sunday is my twenty-fifth birthday. If you’d like to buy me a present, you can help cheer up the super-depressed, always dejected birthday girl by going here. If you’re thinking of buying me something at some point or another, this may be the last birthday I have, so buy quick.
I especially want Boggle.
Now that I’m done with my whining and complaining that I’m alive and experiencing another birthday on the way to my inevitable and soon-approaching death, I suppose it’s only fair that I find the time to update my journal so people know I’m not really ignoring them out of spite or anything.
No, I’ve just been miserable lately, that’s all.
I’ve been carted off to the hospital, in and out of doctor’s offices, and I’ve been experiencing the craziest fogs in my head. I can’t seem to think straight to save my life, and it’s all because of these damn drugs.
But if it weren’t for the drugs, I’d be dead already.
I awoke this morning at 5:00, just like I do every other weekday morning. I jumped out of bed, glad for once to be waking up because I had the most restless night’s sleep ever due to the three beers I had last night. This is the most alcohol I’ve had in a long, long time. Three beers and a great time out to dinner with Larke, the old roommate who I haven’t seen since before the move to Georgia, and I was put completely out of commission.
I’m either way too old to live or way too fucked in the head.
In any case, I got out of bed and somehow managed to force myself through my workout, I finished getting ready for work, and I got on the bus for the commute with Rob. At that point, I knew I’d made a mistake. Before two hours were gone, I was so dizzy and confused that I couldn’t concentrate on steadying my thoughts enough to be able to fold sheets of paper in half. I was literally sitting at my desk trying to fold papers in half to do some of the random, mindless office work and be helpful in my misery, and I couldn’t do it.
I’m too fucked up to fold paper.
At about quarter after eleven, I went to my boss to tell her I was going home. There was no question that I needed to leave. By that point, I not only felt like I was going to pass out, I also felt like I was going to puke. My boss appeared to be somewhat distressed by the fact that I wanted to leave, even though it is DEAD in here today, but I needed to go home, so I put my shit together and left.
Ten or fifteen minutes later, I was still waiting at the bus stop for the bus to pick me up to take me home. The air outside was brisk and cool, chilling enough to feel like the cleanliness of autumn was seeping in through my lungs, so I guess the cold air on my face helped me feel a little better. I was also annoyed by the presence of some guy who just couldn’t stand the fact that the bus wasn’t coming soon enough, so he kept asking everyone he saw when the bus was going to arrive and nobody knew (of course).
I became annoyed.
I became so annoyed, in fact, that I took myself straight back to the office. I figured I couldn’t feel all that much better by getting on a bus with this crazy dude and sitting there dizzily engaged in trying to keep myself from puking. Imagine the surprise on my boss’s face when I stepped back in her office telling her I was back from going home. At that point, she felt guilty (I think), so she started trying to convince me that I really SHOULD go home to get some sleep and feel better.
I’m never going to drink again.
Is it really such a bad thing to want to go out occasionally on a weeknight? Is it really so bad to have three beers while visiting with a friend I haven’t seen in over a year? Is it really supposed to be such a difficult task to get through? Why am I so fucked up?
And why am I still getting older?
