7-Eleven, Marijuana, Lethargy

Sunday

I am sitting at the diner on Franklin Boulevard, waiting for Gabriel. We were meant to meet at one, but now it’s almost two and he hasn’t shown up. Three times now I’ve opened my phone to call him and then decided not to call. The plan to meet was tenuous anyway, made in the dark hours of yesterday morning at his apartment after the party. I was lying on his rug, hungry. I said let’s go to Clark Street on Sunday. He said okay and I said what time and he said um and I said noon… wait no, one. And he said okay and that was that. He probably doesn’t remember saying okay. Why should I call and remind him? Why make him feel bad for not showing up somewhere he probably doesn’t remember agreeing to be? And anyway I am in a monosyllabic mood. I feel too indifferent right now to play my part in a back and forth where he apologizes and says he forgot and I act reassuring and say things like don’t worry about it and no, seriously, don’t worry about it. So here I am, sitting alone in a window side booth at Clark Street, drinking black coffee and watching people on the sidewalk shift their weight around under the jacarandas and wait for their tables to be ready. I want to order two eggs over medium with rye toast, hash browns and a three strip side of bacon, but I don’t feel like flagging down my waitress. She has her hair twisted back in an elaborate braid and seems really mad at me. “She’s My Baby” by Wings is floating out of the invisible sound system and there’s this guy with a buzz cut and tattoos all over his body mouthing the lyrics to his girlfriend in the booth next to mine. His eyes are shut tight and he’s holding an invisible microphone and the girlfriend is smiling really big. She’s my baby, she comes out at night, she’s taking me by surprise, she’s my baby… I am starting to feel a bit sick. I need two eggs over medium with rye toast and hash browns and a three strip side of bacon. That or a cigarette. That, a cigarette or for a man with a buzz cut to sing “She’s My Baby” by Wings to me.

Monday

Sitting on the living room couch, wearing an oversized tee shirt with the TMZ logo printed across the front and a baby pink pair of underwear. Watching an episode of The Twilight Zone that I have seen ten thousand times before and waiting for the Aztec Secret Indian Healing Clay I slathered across my forehead, nose and cheeks to dry up and flake. Today was dull and sluggish. I feel dull and sluggish. It’s the summer heat, I think, causing the lethargy. The summer heat and maybe whatever is leftover of last night’s sleeping pills swimming around in my bloodstream. I spent most of the afternoon lying around on the hardwood floor beneath the air conditioner in agony. Even with the sixty-nine degree synthetic breeze cascading over me, I never quit sweating. Feel vampiric, feel like the little bits of light leaking through the drapes could kill me. I want blackout curtains but cannot let myself purchase them. There is something spiritually perverse about blackout curtains. I ate a reishi chocolate vegan ice cream sandwich for lunch at three. Should I return to veganism? I like animals and I have nothing better to do. Sounds interesting to impose a benign set of rules on my directionless life. I was supposed to meet Mila for pilates at the Heated Room on 3rd Street at five, but I just couldn’t imagine pulling a sports bra over my head and so I called her and said exactly that, that I couldn’t imagine pulling a sports bra over my head and that I wouldn’t be making it to class. She seemed relieved. She didn’t feel like making it to class either. We chatted about nothing for a few minutes and she told me that last night I made an appearance in her dream. I wish I could access the mind-footage of every appearance I’ve ever made in someone else’s dream. I want to watch myself. I want to study every conjured version of me. I want to know everything. What was I wearing? Did we kiss?

Tuesday

I am home alone. All of the windows are open and the bathroom smells like acetone. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and I am feeling restless. Here is everything that I have done so far today: Woke up to a text that said are you alive. Wrote down what I remembered of a sexually charged dream I had been having about a girl I went to high school with. Went online to look at pictures of the girl I went to high school with and felt vaguely aroused. Felt too weak to finger myself. Swallowed five milligrams of Norethindrone, ten milligrams of Claritin and three-hundred and twenty-five milligrams of Aspirin. Washed my face. Performed a harsh assessment of my naked body in the mirror. Felt mostly apathetic. Apathetic is good. Brewed a pot of coffee. Poured a cup and added cream and brought it back into bed with me. Looked at the internet on my laptop. Turned the AC on. Crawled back under the duvet and fell asleep. Woke up an hour later. Poured another cup of coffee. Felt warm and swollen and slow-moving. Applied for a job selling ugly clothes at an ugly store on an ugly street Downtown. Applied for a job selling expensive clothes at an expensive store on an expensive street by the beach. Felt afraid. Walked down Hollywood Boulevard to the 7-Eleven on Wilcox because the 7-Eleven on Wilcox sells tall cans of Diet Coke. Lately I have been disloyal to the smoke shop I used to love, the one with weirdly cheap products and those two cashiers I came to know and project fantasies, motives and feelings upon. Bought two tall cans of Diet Coke and a pack of Marlboro 27s from an Indian guy with a pierced ear and a good looking face. Wondered how long it will take for me to start projecting fantasies, motives and feelings onto the Indian guy with a pierced ear and a good looking face. Walked back to the bungalow. Put one of the tall cans into the fridge and brought the other back into bed with me. Took off my clothes. Drank Diet Coke and got stoned. Applied for a job seating people at an Italian restaurant in Van Nuys for nineteen dollars an hour. Plucked my eyebrows on the bathroom floor and then painted my nails with a black bottle of Chanel polish that I have owned since 2017. Didn’t like the way it looked. Removed the paint with acetone and cotton pads while it was still wet. Had thoughts of death. Ignored a call from my mother and felt guilty. Cried a little. Ate dried apricots and plain toast in bed. Drank cold tap water in bed. Edited yesterday’s writing. Starred a usable passage for the blog. Ignored another call from my mother. Began to feel claustrophobic around two. Brought Eugene Onegin and a 27 and the second Diet Coke outside onto the back stairs with me. Sat like that until I got hot. Came back inside and drew the curtains. Got back into bed. Started writing this.

Wednesday

Last night I slept ten hours and had two dreams.

1. I was sitting in the backseat of my mother’s car, on the way to the beach. She was driving and my father was sitting in the passenger’s seat. The car was rattling and my mother was worried that things were about to fall apart, but my father kept telling her to focus on the road and not worry. The car was packed full of things. Couldn’t tell what any of the things were. There was a giant wall of items surrounding me, a barrier between my parents and I. I couldn’t see into the front seat. I could barely move. It was like I was in my own little cave, and I felt fine. I felt happy to have a bit of privacy, even if it constricted me. Kept wanting to stretch my legs. Kept finding myself unable to. My mother stopped the car at a truck stop and all three of us got out to use the bathrooms. I had to be careful opening the door, I had to move slowly so that none of the items stuffed in would fall out. The bathrooms looked like the ones at that little desert public park in Vegas by my mother’s house. A sad, brown brick hut. I closed myself into a stall and everything was beige and wet and the floors were made of sand. I never made it back to the car because I woke up.

2. I was in Duck Creek with my evil boyfriend. We were on vacation. He rented this giant cabin in the village for us, right between the back path to Aspen Mirror Lake and the hardware store. The cabin was this massive, looming thing. Eight or nine floors. Too many bedrooms to count. The layout was kind of nonsensical. There were staircases that led to nowhere and three identical kitchens. Everything was made of wood, dark wood, and the decor was sparse. My evil boyfriend and I were sitting on the first floor, in one of the living rooms. We were sat on opposite ends of a giant brown leather couch. The mood was tense and I was trying to lighten it up. I suggested that we get outside for awhile, take the path down to Aspen Mirror Lake to visit the tree that we carved our initials into last summer. His response was lukewarm and it hurt my feelings. I think he shrugged. I stood up slowly, without saying anything, and began to wander around the house. I was trying to get lost. I took the strangest path that I could think of, up every staircase, down every hallway, until I got to what I thought was the top. I opened a door and entered a room that was empty except for one giant armoire. The armoire spanned the entire back wall. I opened it up and found that it was actually the entrance to a secret room. The room had giant windows and one big white bed. I closed myself inside and got into the bed. It felt so nice. I felt happy and safe because I knew that my evil boyfriend wouldn’t be able to find me. Then I felt briefly worried that I wouldn’t be able to find my own way back out, and then I woke up.

Thursday