2B. (permanent bruises on our knees)
I fell nauseated and exhausted into bed at six, right after dinner, but I'm not really wired for long sleeps, however fervently I desire them, wanting to just pass through boredom or physical discomfort on a raft of dreams. I woke up a few minutes ago (ETA: it took a long time for me to write this entry; "a few minutes ago" when I typed that sentence was a little after 8:30 PM). I probably won't be able to go back to sleep until sometime between eleven-thirty and one-thirty, the usual, no matter how tired I feel. I got a going-away party last night, which was kind of embarrassing, and flattering, and surprising, and wonderful. It was like it was my birthday. I'm banged up from dancing. I think from dancing. There's a rather glorious, orchid-shaped and jam-colored splotch blooming on the hingey place between my right knee and the point where my calf begins its curve outwards. I drank a bit more than I should have, mostly by accident; it was the type of situation where I had a couple of shots (in the form of quasi-White Russians made in Freesia's dorm room with stolen milk from the cafeteria), still felt relatively sober twenty minutes or so later, had another drink or three, and then it all hit me like a sack of gold-plated bricks about an hour after that. I get so used to wine and beer (mostly wine, since, for some reason, I find even horrible, too-sweet pink wine from a box with a plastic nozzle stuck on the side more palatable than cheap beer) that some stupid part of me really does expect liquor to work the same way. Which it, of course, does not. Also, I felt like I should experiment by making my cocktail with the three different kinds of milk Freesia'd brought: plain 2%, chocolate, and soy. Anyway, I had fun, I didn't throw up or black out, and I didn't do or say anything too embarrassing. I did do that thing I tend to do when I'm drunk where I flirt with everybody and make out with almost anyone who'll respond to it. I don't know why, exactly, I do this. I think a lot of times people assume it's sex, that I'm going to have sex with random acquaintances, though I'm actually quite rigid about not going that far, never letting it turn into more than kissing and groping. It's rather harmless, when all's said and done, but when I wake up the next morning I'm puzzled by my own behavior. I guess it's a way of getting attention, or a way of feeling valuable, interesting, brave, in control. Silly.
It was a very girly party, at least to begin with: I painted people's faces, and Charlotte, Laura, Morgan and I gave a detailed blow-by-blow of the increasingly ridiculous plot of the Twilight series to an incredulous, amused/horrified audience, complete with dramatic reenactments of certain key scenes. I don't think there's any way to do justice to how hilarious this was (or seemed at the time) in writing, but I want to remember it for myself. Today I woke with a sour mouth after only four or five hours of sleep, took a shower, took some ibuprofen, finished up the first season of Twin Peaks, wished I had time to watch the second, returned the DVDs to the library, and did all I could do in my hungover state. Lay around like a sick seal on a rock. Kept wondering whether I was going to throw up or not. Thought about how tomorrow I'll need to start packing; folded and stacked things in cardboard cartons in my mind, dithered about what should go on the free pile and what should come with me. It's difficult for me to give up clothes, books, sewing and craft equipment that I will Totally Use For Something Amazing One Of These Days, Honest. I always amass far too many of these things, even should I manage to steel myself and really clear out, clean up, throw or give most of my belongings away. I do that, I feel clean and pure and unencumbered for about three weeks, and then I start collecting bottlecaps or I rescue a coverless paperback novel from a dumpster or I see a long, pale purple skirt on a clothes rack outside a secondhand shop and it turns out to fit, like, perfectly, and it's cheap because it has a rip in one side (which I can easily fix), and there are tulips embroidered around the waist, ooooh... and the clutter grows back like kudzu over the next six months.
Alicia (who I cannot wait to see again) showed me this interview with Maurice Sendak a couple nights ago. I meant to put a link to it in my last entry, but I forgot. And Miranda July has an interesting editorial/memoir piece about shoplifting in the most recent New Yorker. It reminded me a lot of, well, several different people I know, for various reasons. Athene, on the very off-chance that you're reading this, you should check it out.