I lay awake at 4:30 a.m., reflecting on all the bridges I’ve burned. No, nothing so spectacular or drama-worthy; it’s more like I’ve let those bridges decay and collapse out of neglect. I never intended to do such, just like the designers of the Tacoma Bridge never imagined it might disintegrate with the whistling of the wind. I just…I don’t know. I turned around to do something, looked up and saw that it was fifteen years later.
I have an unsent birthday letter to Eli burning a hole in my purse, incriminating me every time I brush past it to get out my wallet or keys or whatever. It is so late being sent that the address on the outside is no longer valid, because my ex-boyfriend is a globe-trotting hobo and I don’t even know what country he will be in a month from now.
I fear all my old friends are angry with me because I don’t keep up with them enough. I had an idea to reconnect with people by doing a repeat of a birthday event I had years ago: ask people for stories, in lieu of presents or booze. So I have created a Facebook event demanding that my friends use their precious free time to entertain me, and really only just a few have accepted. In the dim light of the early insomniac hour, I see how obnoxious this stunt must seem, to someone who hasn’t heard from me in months.
I’ve spent months (nearly a year) throwing dollars and time I don’t really have at a hobby which will never translate into anything more than that. I want to be happy for my new friends (?), but the petty part of me is demoralized to see people who started in the scene at the same time, or even more recently than me, be awesome and funny and have shows and fans and respect. Whereas with me, it’s a constant struggle not to bum the fuck out of everyone in the room with the darkness clouding my brain. I was actually invited to be in an independent troupe, but quit yesterday; I’d started dreading going to practice and often left feeling miserably unfunny. (A friend of mine suggested that I try doing scenes while bawling my eyes out as an anti-comedy schtick – however, I am not sure this troupe I just quit, mostly comprised of “shock jock DJ in the morning dudes,” would be down with art-shit).
Every boy I have met post-Russian has either been interested and then quickly un-interested in me, or never really interested in me except theoretically, since I guess I serve as a fairly convenient pseudo-girlfriend. I am actually okay with this for now, since I don’t think I have my head quite clear enough to level up to actual-girlfriend quite just yet. But I feel immature and guilty for being okay with this. Oh, and also the not having a 401k thing, or even enough money to buy a proper sofa. I’ll be thirty-one next week. I have perhaps aged out of the decade in which I should reasonably be tolerating half-assed boys and temporary furnishings.
I obsess over the mice in my kitchen cupboards, scattering droppings and urine over triple-bagged quinoa and wild rice, sidestepping the humane trap my roommate and I have peanut-buttered for them, while my cat snores in the other room. The mice know what they want from life, and are constrained to an elegant set of actions. No complications, no distractions. Just go with the grain.