It figures. It fucking figures that the one day of the week when I'm able to just stay in
bed all day, it's lovely and
sunny out. The two days previous, when I had to go out despite my
Martian death cold (
goneaway, I feel your pain), it was pouring freezing rain. Categorically
Not Fair.
On Wednesday, I trekked up to
Times Square to see
The Full Monty on
Broadway with my roommate, which was
fabulous, and which I would have enjoyed even more had I been able to cheer without icepicks slamming into my vocal cords. And last night, I was supposed to meet up with
Phyllis Stein while he was in the city, but I apparently sounded like
death warmed over on the phone, so I begged off. Ah, well. Sometime soon, I hope.
Later that night, my roommate filled me with soup and we stumbled the few blocks to Tonic to see
Brian Dewan play. He was also sick. He still managed to
rock, while I merely managed not to fall
asleep.
It sounds like my roommate is being inconsiderate of the fact that I am sick unto death!...but that's not the case. She's talking excellent care of me, due to the fact that I've a rather weak
immune system and tend to look pathetically like a
Precious Moments figurine when feeling under the weather. She's kept me fed, hydrated and entertained - she even surprised me with stickers, a
Time Out New York and a
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion CD yesterday. Bless her shiny metal heart.
My first love was a drug dealer.
Actually, he still is. But two summers ago, when I first started hanging out with the
drama fags, orchestra kids, and assorted other
fringe scenesters, he sold
pot to all his friends. Not to me, of course, which should have tipped me off. To me, he would sit and preach the gospel of
responsible drug use. I watched
Permanent Midnight with his arm around me. He went on long rants about
William S. Burroughs, on whom he'd once written a
term paper.
I never saw him use any drugs, but they were all he thought about.
I was madly
in love with him. I don't know why.
Then he went off to college in
Boston, making sure to stomp on my heart a few times before he went. The first time I was able, after that, to look at him without turning into stone was the day before I left for college this summer.
It was at a mutual friend's
party. We talked about his sudden interest in the Boston
rave scene. I noticed that he was wearing very
expensive clothing. I talked about some of my recent troubles. He offered to buy some of my
Dexedrine.
I'm sick of him.