I have forty two mintues of internet time here at 42nd Street and 7th Avenue. I just swiped the new copy of Time Out that someone left behind when they left this place, the Fall Fashion issue, with mod kids on the front making me want to buy some mod clothes. I rode to Times Square with Dara over an hour or so ago, and she was going to run to the library to return some books and meet me here. She has not shown up. I have already took a break from this dollar internet place and wandered around this trippy area of town, thought about plunking down a quarter to check out the peep booths, but didn't have the nerve, drank some coffee, and am back here, after calling Dara twice to no answer from her, feeling incredibly lonely.
I really have no clue what has happened to Dara. I am sure something perfectly normal, but for a bit, the part of my mind that loves to feel sorry for itself, was convinced that she purposely ditched me, that even my roommate doesn't want to spend time with me. This internet place plays really depressing slow jams, and so you are going to have indulge me while I submit to this soundtrack and catalog the depressing aspects of my life here in this city.
A couple weeks ago, this boy that I had seen around town and had a little crush on, sat across from me on the subway, talked to me, and said he wanted to hang out, that he wanted my number. I gave it to him, gave my number to this cute redhead that talked to me! And my spirits were lifted - I stopped believing that I was a big loser, that that is why boys were never interested in me, and I even had a little surge of confidence for a day or so. But he never called.
And in addition, last week, I met this boy Josh who was on the go, but really seemed to like me and told me that we should be Friendsters as he was going. So I wrote him, and he never responded. He was in the Strand two days ago, and I said hi, and he defensively apoligized for not having written yet, but that he really is going to. And again, no response yet. But the icing on the cake would be last night when some cute mod boy kept checking me throughout the night at the Phoenix, where one dollar buds were being served. The boy eventually talked to me, and then left our conversation really abruptly after I had talked for about a minute. I was rejected by some boy that approached me.
And last week, my favorite person at the Strand and I got in a huge argument about what I percieved to be his offensive presumptions about peoples' sexuality, precipitated by him saying a certain customer was gay because he was looking for Virginia Woolf and had a lisp. The argument ended with him saying that he wasn't going to talk to me anymore and leaving work early. Things have since cooled and we are again talking cordially.
And it is the aggregate of little things like these, but god, the sheer number of these little things is huge, huge enough to make these little things seem enormous, to take on a magnitude way beyond the scope which they should normally have, should the person they were occurying to be a happy, healthy individual - it these things all added up that make me incredibly lonely. My house is always empty. I am usually the only person sleeping there. I think this is why I was excited about the idea of moving to Miami earlier this week when Bonnie and Rebecca proposed the situation, of perhaps reenacting the blissful living situation that was Cypress Circle, living with close friends, staying up and chatting, playing board games. I miss it. But the Miami plans fell through, but gosh, oh man, how I would have loved lived to with Rebecca and Bonnie, to live with close friends and feel connected to others, something warm maybe. And really all I want is to be close to someone, and this is why I go out night after night with Joe from work, why I throw my heart at boys who are waiting for something better to come along, because as lonely as I sometimes am, I still have hope that this need not be my condition, that one day a boy will want to be my friend. And I am going out again tonight, will dance my sorrows away. Dance the troubles out of my system. The problem is I don't exercise enough. That's always the problem when you are in a sad state, lack of movement. I have to move. I've got to.
And tomorrow, Lost in Translation opens with my favorite person ever, the person who I worry, I am slowly turning into with each rejection, Bill Murray, and as much as I love Bill Murray, I don't want to be him, I don't at all. I need the eggs.
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