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19:24 - June 26, 2002
something
Not only am I an angry spider, but I was thinking out of a completely antisocial (spider) mindset at work today, and though that may just be because sitting at a computer for seven and a half hours with no human interaction will do that to you, you'd think it would go the other way. I drove home wanting to see no one, feeling more than a little detached. Last night everything mattered, but today it's almost stagnant enough to start the depression again if I weren't drugged on the fucking Paxil. I don't know what I want to do. There's waiting, and I have to eat, and there's no food in the house, but reading Requiem For A Dream is twisting me more than a little, making me feel like Sara, who can't go grocery shopping; it's even making me write similarly. There is, appropriately, a woman in a white nightgown strolling down our street, carrying a newborn baby. I need to read something else. She's walking the other way now; back toward the playground. This isn't anxiety, is it?

I might just be getting a taste of what it will be like to come back here after a semester of college. Everyone who's been through it says high school ties don't last, not comparatively, at least. Erik is wrapped up in his Mary package and I should mind, but I don't. I miss him since he's in Europe, but not because he's happy in someone's arms. That's good, isn't it? Slightly less selfish than is standard? Maybe I've finally matched the emotional bit with the logic that's always been in my head saying, 'he deserves it'.

And the summer our idealism embraced is finally here. Great America didn't happen. Bristol Renaissance probably won't, since Camille is camping and everything organized by Mike seems to die when Camille isn't involved, and L.A. doesn't look nice; - if they won't let her drive three miles away to the closest city, why fly 2000 miles west? - and Wes, without his car, won't be up here. Road trip got squashed long ago. Laser tag? Meh. Nothing special is going to happen, no matter how many times we say it will.

A boy on Halsted leaned off of his porch and asked us if we wanted to come to his party. 'No, curfew' obviously wasn't going be the response, so it was apologetic, vague, simpering grins, and then the inevitable drive through the thick, drunk Wrigley crowd. Saying I need something to happen would be rhetorical, but I need something to happen.

 

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