Hello, I Dislike You Intensely. Have a Nice Day.
Entry #52.
Thanksgiving. I’ve grown out of being bitter over cheesy commercialized holidays, so now I’m just sad. It’s not any better, it’s just novel.
My dad was going to come down and visit, but he decided not to. Fine by me. It’s just me and Mom this year, which isn’t bad, just quiet. Everything is so quiet. I went outside; sunlight quiet, stucco quiet; cars that made whooshing noises over on the road sounded sad and out of place.
I guess I should explain things about my dad. Sure, he’s a schmuck, a tool, and, let’s face it, a cougar, but he’s not an awful person. He’s just a schmuck, a tool, and a cougar. I would provide these cute little anecdotes to endear him to you, but I don’t feel like it right now. Fuck you, he’s my father and I don’t have to defend him to anyone, because I know what’s true, and that’s what matters.
--
Mom sent me out to get powdered gravy, and I came back an hour and a half later without gravy. Don’t want to explain, insert same reasoning as before.
--
In the three weeks or so it’s been since I last wrote, some things have happened.
Like getting my permit, for one. That was one of the better things.
And then there were not-better things. I finally saw Alex’s hands go up, limp at the wrists, in the universal “I don’t know” gesture. It made me sad for hours, so sad that the sadness eventually blotted out the memory of whatever it was that elicited his not-knowing. I always thought there was nothing he couldn’t fix. So naïve of me.
I went up to him on a warm, beautiful, uncharacteristically November day, put my hand into his, and realized it was cold and clammy. He wouldn’t tell me anything.
I was talking to him once and mentioned the name of some kid and he said, “Oh, I know him.” I said, “How?” and he said, “It’s not relevant.” Awkward silence.
I kissed him, and suddenly afterward I had the urge to apologize.
I was lying next to him, taking him in, expecting to be looked back at. But no; his eyes were shut, though he wasn’t sleeping, because if he had been his breathing would have sounded different.
Every time I say I love him, I feel like a diver, muscles tensed, staring down at a deep pool. She’s not the one who sees the beautiful shapes she makes in the air, the dancing while falling; she only feels her muscles burning, organs losing their sense of place, the world passing by in a car-crash-like patchwork. And then the water.
I don’t know, and I can’t guess, at any of this. Something’s wrong. Is it me? What if it’s not? Would I prefer it to be me instead of him?
My mother sent me to Basha’s for dried gravy packets and I saw a couple in the condiment and soup aisle, and broke down. Because it was one of those middle-aged couples where you know just from looking at them that they were happy once but not anymore, and the only reason they are still together is for the sake of the past. I couldn’t take it, I just left there and sat inside the car with this terrible vertigo, my hands sweating onto the steering wheel that I held in a death grip. It was too much. The incomprehensibility of love was more frightening than anything I had ever known, and I lost control of the thoughts in my head. I thought I might die, found myself thinking, Please, God, don’t let me die. It’s been a while since I last believed in God. The whole panic attack felt like I was going through some horrible accident, even though the car was completely still.
Maybe I should be ashamed to say this, but I might just love him more for using me. Just like a fucking character in a Jonathan Safran Foer novel.
I don’t know. Stop asking me. You: I wasn’t asking you anything. Me: Yes you were. Fuck you.
I’m sorry. I don’t actually mean that. Just wish I did.
My dad was going to come down and visit, but he decided not to. Fine by me. It’s just me and Mom this year, which isn’t bad, just quiet. Everything is so quiet. I went outside; sunlight quiet, stucco quiet; cars that made whooshing noises over on the road sounded sad and out of place.
I guess I should explain things about my dad. Sure, he’s a schmuck, a tool, and, let’s face it, a cougar, but he’s not an awful person. He’s just a schmuck, a tool, and a cougar. I would provide these cute little anecdotes to endear him to you, but I don’t feel like it right now. Fuck you, he’s my father and I don’t have to defend him to anyone, because I know what’s true, and that’s what matters.
--
Mom sent me out to get powdered gravy, and I came back an hour and a half later without gravy. Don’t want to explain, insert same reasoning as before.
--
In the three weeks or so it’s been since I last wrote, some things have happened.
Like getting my permit, for one. That was one of the better things.
And then there were not-better things. I finally saw Alex’s hands go up, limp at the wrists, in the universal “I don’t know” gesture. It made me sad for hours, so sad that the sadness eventually blotted out the memory of whatever it was that elicited his not-knowing. I always thought there was nothing he couldn’t fix. So naïve of me.
I went up to him on a warm, beautiful, uncharacteristically November day, put my hand into his, and realized it was cold and clammy. He wouldn’t tell me anything.
I was talking to him once and mentioned the name of some kid and he said, “Oh, I know him.” I said, “How?” and he said, “It’s not relevant.” Awkward silence.
I kissed him, and suddenly afterward I had the urge to apologize.
I was lying next to him, taking him in, expecting to be looked back at. But no; his eyes were shut, though he wasn’t sleeping, because if he had been his breathing would have sounded different.
Every time I say I love him, I feel like a diver, muscles tensed, staring down at a deep pool. She’s not the one who sees the beautiful shapes she makes in the air, the dancing while falling; she only feels her muscles burning, organs losing their sense of place, the world passing by in a car-crash-like patchwork. And then the water.
I don’t know, and I can’t guess, at any of this. Something’s wrong. Is it me? What if it’s not? Would I prefer it to be me instead of him?
My mother sent me to Basha’s for dried gravy packets and I saw a couple in the condiment and soup aisle, and broke down. Because it was one of those middle-aged couples where you know just from looking at them that they were happy once but not anymore, and the only reason they are still together is for the sake of the past. I couldn’t take it, I just left there and sat inside the car with this terrible vertigo, my hands sweating onto the steering wheel that I held in a death grip. It was too much. The incomprehensibility of love was more frightening than anything I had ever known, and I lost control of the thoughts in my head. I thought I might die, found myself thinking, Please, God, don’t let me die. It’s been a while since I last believed in God. The whole panic attack felt like I was going through some horrible accident, even though the car was completely still.
Maybe I should be ashamed to say this, but I might just love him more for using me. Just like a fucking character in a Jonathan Safran Foer novel.
I don’t know. Stop asking me. You: I wasn’t asking you anything. Me: Yes you were. Fuck you.
I’m sorry. I don’t actually mean that. Just wish I did.