(no subject)
Yesterday I went to Green Park with Pingy. We ate strawberries and drank a bottle of wine and a bottle of something else, and we played conversational topic table tennis, veering back and forth between memories of K, the use of horses in the city, the difficulty of being friends with people who are ill in ways that may kill them without warning, art, law, the world, music, K, sorrow, our good fortune at having known him at all, wine, madness, K.
Then I got an "oh god everything's gone tits" from the person I was meant to be meeting; composed myself, grabbed two cans of gin and tonic and went to meet her at an art gallery, where we a) got more drunk b) vaguely prodded some expensive art and c) mostly repeatedly denigrated a stupid boy who made her feel bad.
This was followed up by tipsily lurching around Whole Foods, getting lost in a posh business building trying to leave a signed (defaced with pictures of a dick) copy of said friend's new book for another of her friends to collect when she got out of work ("Fuck, I'd forgotten receptionists were a thing - we're not very professional people, are we?" / "We're writers, darling--") by visiting the vegan ice cream place (further denigration of the Stupid Boy; frozen yogurt, matcha-flavoured), and finally going to LAB for Unhappy Hour, ingesting a lot of cocktails, more denigration of the Stupid Boy and building up of friend's ego, and putting myself on a bus.
A fantastic distraction now dispensed with, I spent most of the bus journey home trying to cry as silently as possible while staring out of the window. I considered what to say about K. I considered it in depth, and then I decided, having more or less written an essay, that I didn't want to say anything.
I feel stretched out and battered now. Partly a hangover, partly grief (and suddenly, yesterday, distracted-drunk, sad to the core, trailing around after drunk and melodramatic friend, every stupid gay boy in London wants to flirt with me. PLEASE PICK A MOMENT. AND FUCK OFF), partly I don't know what, but everything people try to say just makes me want to shout at them. There's a deluge of "sorry about your friend" in the inbox of every bit of social media I'm on (just... please can we take it as read that you're sorry and stop telling me, stop reminding me); I'm supposed to be going for drinks with A New Internet Person tomorrow evening (Jess is convinced I am Running Away To Start An Orgy/New Life With A Wonderful Man and I'm like... I'm going to sit in awkward silence with some random because I want to go through with "meeting new people" but my brain is not working) and I have to find some kind of excuse for my current levels of imbecility that isn't just honesty - I'm sorry I can't brain right now, I'm paralysed by sadness.
And I have this nagging feeling any time I mention it or just respond with "no" when Jess asks if I'm okay that I'm probably meant to be okay now. Like, we've all acknowledged a thing happened, go back to normal! I spent yesterday 50% carrying someone else's stress and today trying to force myself to write (not a success), bake (not a success), type up plotting notes (guess), and carrying a different person's stress...
I'm too fucking tired even to read, I don't want to keep getting up and doing things and pushing myself but until I physically CANNOT there is no excuse.
Then I got an "oh god everything's gone tits" from the person I was meant to be meeting; composed myself, grabbed two cans of gin and tonic and went to meet her at an art gallery, where we a) got more drunk b) vaguely prodded some expensive art and c) mostly repeatedly denigrated a stupid boy who made her feel bad.
This was followed up by tipsily lurching around Whole Foods, getting lost in a posh business building trying to leave a signed (defaced with pictures of a dick) copy of said friend's new book for another of her friends to collect when she got out of work ("Fuck, I'd forgotten receptionists were a thing - we're not very professional people, are we?" / "We're writers, darling--") by visiting the vegan ice cream place (further denigration of the Stupid Boy; frozen yogurt, matcha-flavoured), and finally going to LAB for Unhappy Hour, ingesting a lot of cocktails, more denigration of the Stupid Boy and building up of friend's ego, and putting myself on a bus.
A fantastic distraction now dispensed with, I spent most of the bus journey home trying to cry as silently as possible while staring out of the window. I considered what to say about K. I considered it in depth, and then I decided, having more or less written an essay, that I didn't want to say anything.
I feel stretched out and battered now. Partly a hangover, partly grief (and suddenly, yesterday, distracted-drunk, sad to the core, trailing around after drunk and melodramatic friend, every stupid gay boy in London wants to flirt with me. PLEASE PICK A MOMENT. AND FUCK OFF), partly I don't know what, but everything people try to say just makes me want to shout at them. There's a deluge of "sorry about your friend" in the inbox of every bit of social media I'm on (just... please can we take it as read that you're sorry and stop telling me, stop reminding me); I'm supposed to be going for drinks with A New Internet Person tomorrow evening (Jess is convinced I am Running Away To Start An Orgy/New Life With A Wonderful Man and I'm like... I'm going to sit in awkward silence with some random because I want to go through with "meeting new people" but my brain is not working) and I have to find some kind of excuse for my current levels of imbecility that isn't just honesty - I'm sorry I can't brain right now, I'm paralysed by sadness.
And I have this nagging feeling any time I mention it or just respond with "no" when Jess asks if I'm okay that I'm probably meant to be okay now. Like, we've all acknowledged a thing happened, go back to normal! I spent yesterday 50% carrying someone else's stress and today trying to force myself to write (not a success), bake (not a success), type up plotting notes (guess), and carrying a different person's stress...
I'm too fucking tired even to read, I don't want to keep getting up and doing things and pushing myself but until I physically CANNOT there is no excuse.