I am a horrible person
Listen to me whine. You know you want to.
I am a horrible person. I broke a promise to my best friend and now we're in that "we need to talk" stage that involves curt phone conversations with long, awkward pauses. She hung up on me. Twice. So far there has been no yelling, just quiet, simmering disappointment.
I feel like shit. No, something lower than shit. I am the old gum kids stick to the bottoms of chairs. A fleck of spit in the corner of our president's mouth. Betrayal.
I should be happy. My school's electrical system flooded today and we're off for the next two days, so I should be taking this time to relax and not use my brain. But instead I'm sitting in my computer room with the lights off listening to Nick Cave and typing my woes up for you all to read.
This whole mess is the result of a really brilliant Saturday night on my part, the euphoria of which would be lasting at least until tomorrow if everything was right with my friend. The fact of the matter is that I shared a very deep experience with a group of other friends that my best friend isn't really a part of; a sort of first-time thing not involving sex. And I'd promised my dearest mate -- my "hetero-lifepartner," as she so aptly puts it -- that I'd do this thing with her first. You know those promises you make at three a.m. that you seal with pinkie-swears? Yeah, it was one of those. I'm in deep shit.
You see, I made the same promise, if less explicitly, to the friend I did this thing with -- first. (And aren't you just sick of me leaving out names and carefully not mentioning what I actually did?) I need to find a way to explain to my mate that what I did still feels right to me, that when I think back I don't think "everything would be OK if I hadn't done that," but "everything would be OK if she had been there with me." I need to make her understand that the atmosphere of the place I was in was so magical, that it was a bonding experience with these people that I needed to have. That I sometimes need to be with people who skinny-dip and love Jack Kerouac, who discuss existentialism and philosophy and laugh and tell me I'm beautiful. That I'm falling in love with them. That I shared something with them that I wanted to share with her but couldn't. No, it wasn't sex. Are you figuring out what it was yet? Think back over my use of the words "magical" and "deep experience."
Oh, god, what do I do? I don't know how to fix this.
My kitten is biting my shoulder, like she hates me too. I hate myself. Tell me I'm bad. Tell me how to make things OK again.
Bloody hell, that was pathetic. I am fingernail grit; a sad alcoholic's despondent urine. Worthless.