(no subject)
When I reach the apartment on Cortland Avenue I instinctively reach for my phone to call her and ask her to let me in. Holding the phone in my hand for a moment I stare at the gray metal gate that bars the entry way to a room that's felt like more of a home to me than any other place I've stayed over the past three years. It's absolutely terrifying to suddenly be hit with the realization that what I used to view as a barrier between my sanctuary and the outside world is now nothing more than a filth covered gate blocking the way to a cold and damp hallway that smells of toxic mold.
I can't just call her. If I call her, she won't answer. She didn't even invite me. I received the standard invitation that was sent to everyone else on earth, the message "It's our girls last night in sf, come out for her going away party", the damn text message that her roommate sent out to every piece of shit within city limits. I can't just call her. If I call her, she won't answer, and if she doesn't answer I'll end up crying. I'll start crying, and then I'll bust my knuckles on that dirty gray gate, and, while I'm trying to break the damn thing to pieces, I'll curse whatever kind of god there may be for allowing all those wretched fucks to be graced not only by her presence, but, more importantly, with her attention. Her appreciation. Her friendship, her love, her warmth. So, understanding that my emotional state will most definitely not be conducive to the environment that the party planners are hoping for, I put the phone back in the pocket it came out of and push the button that will buzz the apartment. I know that I should run and hide, go back home, but it could quite possibly be the last time I ever see her. This may very well turn out to be the messiest night of my life.
I can't just call her. If I call her, she won't answer. She didn't even invite me. I received the standard invitation that was sent to everyone else on earth, the message "It's our girls last night in sf, come out for her going away party", the damn text message that her roommate sent out to every piece of shit within city limits. I can't just call her. If I call her, she won't answer, and if she doesn't answer I'll end up crying. I'll start crying, and then I'll bust my knuckles on that dirty gray gate, and, while I'm trying to break the damn thing to pieces, I'll curse whatever kind of god there may be for allowing all those wretched fucks to be graced not only by her presence, but, more importantly, with her attention. Her appreciation. Her friendship, her love, her warmth. So, understanding that my emotional state will most definitely not be conducive to the environment that the party planners are hoping for, I put the phone back in the pocket it came out of and push the button that will buzz the apartment. I know that I should run and hide, go back home, but it could quite possibly be the last time I ever see her. This may very well turn out to be the messiest night of my life.