Listening to Liz Phair at thunderous volume, cleaning the apartment with Melynda this morning. We dragged out an ungodly amount of old mail, magazines, beer bottles, and other such assorted detrius accumulated by two college girls.
God I love her. I don't know what I would have done this past year without Melynda. Sometimes it strikes me how grateful and glad I am to know her. She's the kind of person to stay by you, no matter the years or the events. I'd fight for her and drive all night, things like that, if she needed me to do it. In the past year, I've realized how fragile and fleeting even love can be, and it's so damn good to know that friendships can last. I look at my mother, at Shelley and all the other women I know right now who are divorcing. They still have each other. I've had so few friendships that lasted, and that made me feel this way. I can count them on one hand, and half of them are men.
Do you want to be a polyester bride?
Do you want to hang your head and die?
Do you want to find to find alligator cowboy boots that just went on sale?
Do you want to flap your wings and fly away from here?
I have this longing, this odd uncharacteristic longing for a pair of boots and a cowboy hat. Perhaps I'm just developing overly romanticized notions of my past, but I want them. I'll tell my father at lunch and he will laugh.
As I told Gene the other day, my childhood was happy. These days all I want is to combine that happiness, that sure sense of love with the person I am now. My sadness has a quality of rage that is new. I don't want to die anymore. No, not now.
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