backyard crowing



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still trying to rationalize that night...

"Before I could say 'traitor,' my best friend went from being my someday maid of honor to just another person on the guest list, who I might never introduce to my husband."

That's what my diary read the day after a whirlwind night at the Omni Hotel featuring a slew of thirty-year-olds who did not imagine we were in our early 20s trying to convince us to remove our clothes. Adele and I strayed from sixth street that night upon meeting a drunk man from Chicago. He was blonde-haired and eager to make friends. He enjoyed hanging over Adele; as did she.

Our trio caught a cab because no one knew where the hotel was, and the driver was generous enough to take us the two blocks we didn't know we needed. Upon our arrival, Adele and I gave each other the necklace signal. She pulled her silver chain and whispered, "Stay or go?" Wanting to explore the place, I told her "Stay, but only if you want to."

We smiled at each other with crinkling, mischievous eyes. This would be a night to remember.

- Sunday, Nov. 25, 2007
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on second thought, maybe i don't want to be googled

In that pristine hotel room I spent most of my night in yesterday we defiled anything that seemed convenient. We broke glasses, spilt beer, and splashed an mp3 player with vodka. The neatly folded towels in the bathroom, next to scrubbed sparkling grout in the showers were the most misleading aspects of all. We were horrible to each other, turning at every second.

But when you’re out on the town with your best friend and whoever you pick up along the way, a bachelor party at the Omni seems like a good idea.

This is where Abbie and I begin: two women going to a café for dinner and an arcade for fun thereafter. She calls her friend Alejandro (she hates that name, so I’m using it) and invites him to her place to watch a movie and help her with organic chemistry. For weeks they have played the racy text messaging game. She was playing; he was not. But being a male from New York, Alejandro doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer lightly, and I am asked to do my homework with them, for her protection. Of course, I oblige my friend; and hey, I have homework to do as well.

We return to the dorms and I meet the son of a bitch called Alejandro and his 3-person posse

This is the girl who will in all likelihood be my maid of honor. This is the girl whose someday wedding is the only someday wedding I can picture myself toasting the bride at. She’s the only woman other than my mother who has seen my breasts as well… “bosom buddies,” indeed…

And yet, something died in me last night. Who is she, anyway? Who am I? Why are men always such assholes? I thought some of the shit would be displaced by the time a man hit thirty. Guess I was wrong.

But then, I get it now. I understand why I never want to let Abbie meet anyone I date. She thinks I always get “the good ones” when we go out. Really it’s that she steals whoever I am with—is it because I am with him? What is it about people that makes them think they can just drop one person for another within a span of three minutes? Where is their dignity?

But wait, this is a bachelor’s party here. I suppose they’re exempt? But nothing’s exempt. This is life, this is now, this is it. This counts.

But maybe if I want so much to stay sane, I wouldn’t do insane things. Eh?

Throughout the night, the guys referred to us as “girls,” “chicks,” and “kids.”

“What happened to ‘ladies’ and ‘women?’” I asked them.

I hurt for my gender.

And Abbie, I don’t care what the hell Tyra fucking Banks says, I’m anti-pornography for life. My role models are people like DR. J, and somehow I don’t care anymore that he might google his name and see this.

I really don’t want to study with Abby today. I’m tired of protecting her, of thinking only of her when she clearly turned on me last night—and from the beginning, I was by her side. I tried to tell her what a beast George was, but she kept interrupting me. Eventually I thought it might hurt her, and decided it wasn’t the best thing to say after all. I just don’t want to see her or talk to her. I want to give her the silent treatment.

I know if I go it’s going to be horrible, and Alejandro is going to hit on her and I am going to feel like some small son of a bitch. I need at some point to stick up for myself.

Like I said, I’m tired. In this land of disloyalty, perhaps I am finally giving in. I want so much to still be friends with Abbie. She hasn’t messed it up completely yet; I’m just worried. At what point do you draw the line and drop the friendship?

Not now, that’s for God sure. I still love her. I’m just mad at her. There, I said it. I’m mad at her. And now I have to deal with it.

What drinks did I have last night?

-1 smirnoff
-1 tiny bottle of white wine
-maybe half a tecate
-1 cranberry juice mixed with vodka shot

That’s about 4 drinks – all of different kinds. No wonder my stomach was swimming a little this afternoon when I woke up.

- saturday, Nov. 17, 2007
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small stones

seriously? Is adam (internet boy) ignoring me? Are you sure?

Ugh. If he doesn’t get back to me tomorrow, I think I should just forget about him. I believe I will ask him if he’s in a wheelchair, because I have a feeling he might be. And that’s cool. I just want to MEET him, be it for friendship or more.

I guess it serves me right, though. I dropped him completely for Patch…

But I have a gift for him! A PostSecret book, signed by Frank Warren himself!

Oh, well. Maybe if nothing ever materializes that book will go to Abbie or mom. Or I might just be selfish and keep it.

Anyway, today I talked to dad on the phone and started to cry, because I’m overwhelmed by everything I need to finish. He told me to just do one thing at a time.

“It is possible to move a mountain by carrying away small stones.”
-Chinese Proverb

That quote is from a great card mom gave me months ago. It’s still on my corkboard, despite moves from dorm to dorm.

- sunday, Nov. 11, 2007
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too much aspirin

Today I imagined my own death. I took several aspirin this afternoon, and my roommate came in as I was suffering. I was laying in my bed with my blanket covering me, and I was shaking and crying as quietly as I could. I would have died under her very nose if I could have helped it.

She asked me what was wrong, and I wouldn’t say. She called 911, and suddenly I was on a stretcher, in an emergency room, having my stomach pumped. I was glaring at everyone around me so that perhaps they would leave me alone.

What did you take? They all asked me the same thing.

“I took too much aspirin,” I said, and began to sob uncontrollably. I couldn’t look at anyone, and if they looked into my eyes, I gave them the most fiery look I knew how. But they weren’t to blame. Not really.

- saturday, Nov. 10, 2007
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