I've been drinking!

Dear guys,

That’s how I just started this post---as a letter. Like I’m writing to my family from prison.

I’m not in prison, though I do watch MSNBC’s Lockup to help me get to sleep. (Dan has suggested that this is unwise but I think he’s just mad because I ripped a hole in our mattress so I’d have somewhere to store my toothbrush/shank.)

I’ve been gone because...

I’m just sad---that’s the title of the memoir at this point.

I’m just still fucking sad. (And there’s book number two.)

I’m sad and pissed and just all sorts of unpleasant right now. (A self-help trilogy?)

It boils down to this: I miss my mom and dad and I wish they hadn’t died and I’d like things to just go back to how they were when I was stalking my next-door neighbor and all was right with the world. (The fact that writing those words makes me feel like a 10-year-old kid does not help.)

I’m assuming at this point that you understand my longish absences to mean I’m struggling/hiding. Maybe I should change the entry titles while I’m gone to keep you posted on the state of things---a sort of Spew weather channel.

Monday: Hot Mess.
Tuesday: Miserable Fuck.
Wednesday: Trying to not worry and be happy.
Thursday: Bobby McFerrin is a douche.
Friday: Inexplicably horny.
Saturday: Aha---ovulating. God’s a dick for making everything harder for chicks and inventing centipedes. Also, giving both parents cancer and nabbing them? Not cool, Dude.
Sunday: (Intentionally left blank.) (Despondent.)

The last few weeks were actually more the stuff of anguish, mania, and a kind of pathetic bewilderment that took the following form:

I painted the wood paneling in my dad’s office white.

I watched the entire first season of Showtime’s Episodes. (And also what’s aired of the second season. Solid show.)

The form it did not take: writing.

That’s not true, actually. I was writing. I just stopped writing. It’s more cause of the crazy than effect.

See, I wrote my way into a sad patch---I often can’t see where I’m going---and then I ran. I painted. I Episode-ed. I ran and ran.

I tried to write an e-mail to a friend and the sad patch showed up there too! The computer ratted me out! So I ran again.

The sad patch wants to be written and I don’t want to write it. I don’t want to feel it.

So I’m putting on a third coat of paint in the office.

I’m thinking of getting into Web Therapy.

Also, I’ve made a new friend. Her name is white wine and she’s the shit! She’ll hang out any time of day---screw 5pm! She’s pretty much orange juice’s prettier, more sophisticated cousin.

Sometimes though...sometimes...right now...white wine brings along sad patch and I’m like, “What the fuck, white wine? I thought you were cool!”

And she’s all, “Really? I’m pretty sure you learned in 10th grade about my depressant properties.”

And I’m all, “Did you really just say ‘depressant properties’? Cool it with the three-syllable words, Miss Smarty McSmartSmart.”

And she’s all, “You’re going to have to look at sad patch sometime. You might as well---”

And with that, I have to run.

I know I sound like a fucking lunatic. I know.

But it’s coming on fast and I’m feeling too sad to breathe so I have to go.

More to come.

Love,
Lola