Hello, I Dislike You Intensely. Have a Nice Day.
Entries #57 and #58.
I held it back all day ‘til after rehearsal when all of us went to a Waffle House, including Alex, who’d come to watch. Then I kind of really ripped into the boy, and not in a good way. (Thank God everybody had insisted we have our own booth.) I asked him what the fuck he’d been thinking. And he had the nerve to tell me he was “returning the favor.”
“Only you would think of something like this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why did you do this? I mean, the real reason you did this.”
“What, so I can’t just care for you? I have to have some ulterior motive? Isn’t the fact that I – I love you – is that not good enough?”
I wanted to cry, he was making me feel like I was terrible. Maybe I was.
“I knew you wouldn’t get help on your own, Dani. I just knew. You would’ve continued hiding it and letting it go on. Until what? I had to stop it.”
“I never asked to be seen through.” My voice was tight, tears pressing up underneath. It was the last defense I had. After this, I was nothing, a soft, damp girl-mass with no bones, falling in on myself.
“Isn’t that what we all need?” he asked. “Someone who can see through us?” Now I was defenseless.
“Alex, things are terrible at home,” I whispered, staring down at the honey wood grain of the table. Distorted by my tears, they swirled and undulated psychedelically. My vocal chords felt like they had collapsed. “I feel terrible and guilty all the fucking time.”
“I’m sorry.”
I had a sudden flash of insight. “Were you telling May the same thing you told my mom, the day I saw you guys together?”
He looked momentarily surprised that I’d known so much, then said, “Yeah. You guys are friends. You should stay together.”
“Well, that’s a lot better than the things I thought…thanks, I guess.”
I could realize that he’d saved my friendship and probably my life in advance, but I couldn’t feel grateful. The thank-you had been a mechanized social conditioning, no more. I just wanted to scream at him then how none of it had been his to do; yet I knew I’d look like a hypocrite because not so long ago he’d been saying the same to me.
So I stayed quiet. Instead I looked out the window at a paper cup being blown dizzily around on the sidewalk before it fell into the street and got squashed in the wheels of a really ghetto-looking car.
The waitress came up and gave us our waffles. Despite everything they were still delicious beyond my previous imagining. There can’t be anything horribly wrong with me if I can still enjoy these waffles, I thought. Aren’t I supposed to not be able to get out of bed before there’s something really wrong?
Into the wood of the table someone had penned, IHOP is better. Underneath that, someone else had written, Spell IHOP, add “ness”. I laughed – greatest thing I’ve heard in a while. This piqued Alex’s interest. “What?”
“Nothing,” I smirked.
“Something,” he insisted.
“I’m just going to keep smiling.”
“Now you’re holding a grudge.”
“Fine, then, Sigmund Freud, spell IHOP and add “ness” to the end – and say it loud, say it proud.”
He did, half-smiled, and rolled his eyes. Joey, who was sitting at the next booth (imagine Kurt from Glee) turned around and said, “Oh, damn, boy.”
I cracked up, and Alex kept saying, “Really? Really?”
“You totally asked for it.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
I looked out the window again. It was dark out by now – today is the winter solstice. Suddenly, the yellow squares of the Waffle House sign outside lit up like some sort of divine thing. Just the way it shone against the darkness, I could feel things inside me crying out, growing wings, giving me my bones back. It was beautiful when you could catch the moment signs lit up, like catching the exact moment things changed, so you could make sense of those things, so they couldn’t twist you up and fuck you up later.
I had laughed and I had felt joy, almost transfiguration, if I dare say. More things to disprove my sickness. I’ll build a bulwark against the allegation, even though it makes me sad to count my happinesses. Some things shouldn’t be counted; some things I’d rather never know the exact number of. I just wish he’d told May, only May, and not my mother.
--
Oh, I forgot to mention this earlier, but I see a shrink now. Named, I’m not even joking, Woodrow Carpenter. Awful, simply awful. I’ve only seen him once, and we talked about ourselves. He reminded me of my elementary school principal, a bald guy who had a series of llama neckties. The session itself wasn’t excruciating, but I’m not going to start looking forward to it anytime soon. Or taking it seriously. I don’t spill my guts to anyone I don’t want to. Especially not people with names that belong in the ranks of Forrest Green or Ben Dover.
Or Heywood Jablomie.
“Only you would think of something like this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why did you do this? I mean, the real reason you did this.”
“What, so I can’t just care for you? I have to have some ulterior motive? Isn’t the fact that I – I love you – is that not good enough?”
I wanted to cry, he was making me feel like I was terrible. Maybe I was.
“I knew you wouldn’t get help on your own, Dani. I just knew. You would’ve continued hiding it and letting it go on. Until what? I had to stop it.”
“I never asked to be seen through.” My voice was tight, tears pressing up underneath. It was the last defense I had. After this, I was nothing, a soft, damp girl-mass with no bones, falling in on myself.
“Isn’t that what we all need?” he asked. “Someone who can see through us?” Now I was defenseless.
“Alex, things are terrible at home,” I whispered, staring down at the honey wood grain of the table. Distorted by my tears, they swirled and undulated psychedelically. My vocal chords felt like they had collapsed. “I feel terrible and guilty all the fucking time.”
“I’m sorry.”
I had a sudden flash of insight. “Were you telling May the same thing you told my mom, the day I saw you guys together?”
He looked momentarily surprised that I’d known so much, then said, “Yeah. You guys are friends. You should stay together.”
“Well, that’s a lot better than the things I thought…thanks, I guess.”
I could realize that he’d saved my friendship and probably my life in advance, but I couldn’t feel grateful. The thank-you had been a mechanized social conditioning, no more. I just wanted to scream at him then how none of it had been his to do; yet I knew I’d look like a hypocrite because not so long ago he’d been saying the same to me.
So I stayed quiet. Instead I looked out the window at a paper cup being blown dizzily around on the sidewalk before it fell into the street and got squashed in the wheels of a really ghetto-looking car.
The waitress came up and gave us our waffles. Despite everything they were still delicious beyond my previous imagining. There can’t be anything horribly wrong with me if I can still enjoy these waffles, I thought. Aren’t I supposed to not be able to get out of bed before there’s something really wrong?
Into the wood of the table someone had penned, IHOP is better. Underneath that, someone else had written, Spell IHOP, add “ness”. I laughed – greatest thing I’ve heard in a while. This piqued Alex’s interest. “What?”
“Nothing,” I smirked.
“Something,” he insisted.
“I’m just going to keep smiling.”
“Now you’re holding a grudge.”
“Fine, then, Sigmund Freud, spell IHOP and add “ness” to the end – and say it loud, say it proud.”
He did, half-smiled, and rolled his eyes. Joey, who was sitting at the next booth (imagine Kurt from Glee) turned around and said, “Oh, damn, boy.”
I cracked up, and Alex kept saying, “Really? Really?”
“You totally asked for it.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
I looked out the window again. It was dark out by now – today is the winter solstice. Suddenly, the yellow squares of the Waffle House sign outside lit up like some sort of divine thing. Just the way it shone against the darkness, I could feel things inside me crying out, growing wings, giving me my bones back. It was beautiful when you could catch the moment signs lit up, like catching the exact moment things changed, so you could make sense of those things, so they couldn’t twist you up and fuck you up later.
I had laughed and I had felt joy, almost transfiguration, if I dare say. More things to disprove my sickness. I’ll build a bulwark against the allegation, even though it makes me sad to count my happinesses. Some things shouldn’t be counted; some things I’d rather never know the exact number of. I just wish he’d told May, only May, and not my mother.
--
Oh, I forgot to mention this earlier, but I see a shrink now. Named, I’m not even joking, Woodrow Carpenter. Awful, simply awful. I’ve only seen him once, and we talked about ourselves. He reminded me of my elementary school principal, a bald guy who had a series of llama neckties. The session itself wasn’t excruciating, but I’m not going to start looking forward to it anytime soon. Or taking it seriously. I don’t spill my guts to anyone I don’t want to. Especially not people with names that belong in the ranks of Forrest Green or Ben Dover.
Or Heywood Jablomie.