Entry #4,602
The sky is still grey. The rainy weather is still here. The temperature is currently 51˚F. Tomorrow is forecast to be even colder.
In Rhode Island, May is the bitter month that follows the bitterness of April.
Yesterday, Kathryn had errands to run, and I went with her, as staying here alone seemed unwise. I had a biscuit for breakfast, some Gatorade mixed from a powder, a Red Bull. I pulled on a tank top and jeans, a cardigan. Kathryn drove, because I haven't since 2003. I sat in the van and smoked and listened to Neko Case. At the post office, there was art from a roleplay acquaintance in Oklahoma. We stopped at Staples for file boxes. I pissed at Whole Foods and felt everyone watching, thinking about North Carolina. The sidewalks were crowded with people is coats, gloves, wool scarves and caps, actual fur-lined parkas. At Eastside Market, I sat in the car and shivered and stared at the ugly sky while Kathryn went in for milk and aluminum foil. We crossed back over the Point Street Bridge to the squalor of the west side. I had another cigarette. The dirty river was the color of spilled motor oil. Kathryn realized that, somewhere along the route she'd lost her sunglasses, which she'd had since 1999. Back home, I took three Vicodin, which did nothing whatsoever. I drank Gatorade and skipped dinner. I played Guild Wars, because what the fuck else was there to do. I fantasized about buying a train ticket to Birmingham or Jacksonville, about waking to a truly warm sun. There's no way I can afford train fare. Kathryn cooked something, and my stomach rolled at the smell. I closed all the blinds and drapes and turned the thermostat up to 75˚F, resolving not to look outside again and not to leave the house until the temperature reaches 70˚F. It was an unsightly day devoid of even the slimmest rind of hopefulness. Obviously, I didn't write. The sun set, which made things the tiniest bit easier by taking away the grey February light. I did my best not to talk, because talking only ever makes things worse. I talked anyway. I played more Guild Wars. I roleplayed. I played. I had another Vicodin and a half, watching the level in my bottle dwindle. I took my Lamictal. I paced. I had a can of Pepsi. A little before two a.m., I ate a bowl of ramen, took my handful of nighttime meds, then went to bed.
I had dreams I'd rather not talk about.
And here we go again.
Later,
Aunt Beast
In Rhode Island, May is the bitter month that follows the bitterness of April.
Yesterday, Kathryn had errands to run, and I went with her, as staying here alone seemed unwise. I had a biscuit for breakfast, some Gatorade mixed from a powder, a Red Bull. I pulled on a tank top and jeans, a cardigan. Kathryn drove, because I haven't since 2003. I sat in the van and smoked and listened to Neko Case. At the post office, there was art from a roleplay acquaintance in Oklahoma. We stopped at Staples for file boxes. I pissed at Whole Foods and felt everyone watching, thinking about North Carolina. The sidewalks were crowded with people is coats, gloves, wool scarves and caps, actual fur-lined parkas. At Eastside Market, I sat in the car and shivered and stared at the ugly sky while Kathryn went in for milk and aluminum foil. We crossed back over the Point Street Bridge to the squalor of the west side. I had another cigarette. The dirty river was the color of spilled motor oil. Kathryn realized that, somewhere along the route she'd lost her sunglasses, which she'd had since 1999. Back home, I took three Vicodin, which did nothing whatsoever. I drank Gatorade and skipped dinner. I played Guild Wars, because what the fuck else was there to do. I fantasized about buying a train ticket to Birmingham or Jacksonville, about waking to a truly warm sun. There's no way I can afford train fare. Kathryn cooked something, and my stomach rolled at the smell. I closed all the blinds and drapes and turned the thermostat up to 75˚F, resolving not to look outside again and not to leave the house until the temperature reaches 70˚F. It was an unsightly day devoid of even the slimmest rind of hopefulness. Obviously, I didn't write. The sun set, which made things the tiniest bit easier by taking away the grey February light. I did my best not to talk, because talking only ever makes things worse. I talked anyway. I played more Guild Wars. I roleplayed. I played. I had another Vicodin and a half, watching the level in my bottle dwindle. I took my Lamictal. I paced. I had a can of Pepsi. A little before two a.m., I ate a bowl of ramen, took my handful of nighttime meds, then went to bed.
I had dreams I'd rather not talk about.
And here we go again.
Later,
Aunt Beast