I feel utterly pathetic and ill. I guess that's pretty normal though, after a night of four martinis and five beers.

After my mother died I was fine for about a month. I felt fine. I was cognizant of what had happened and I rationalized and spoke of it in the same way that I am doing now, with my father's death. But I didn't feel anything. I didn't cry. I didn't miss her. Only on a very automatic level, was I horrified by what had happened.

It was only later, weeks later, maybe a couple of months, that it all came cascading down. And then I cried for two years. But before that happened, I felt so frustrated. I remember that during that time I got my first tattoo. It was the only time I ever really enjoyed pain and only because I wanted it so much.

I'm worried about myself right now. Along with everyone else, I guess. I don't feel anything. I don't feel sad. I'm hardly thinking about my Dad at all. I haven't cried since Wednesday morning. It's not bothering me in the least to be here, in his condo, among all his things. It doesn't bother me to walk into his empty room. I'm perfectly capable of falling asleep alone in this place, perfectly capable of waking up in the mornings, making coffee for one and appreciating the Southern California weather.

But the scary thing is that none of it really feels right. I'm afraid of how much it's going to hurt, eventually. I'm terrified of how alone and lonely I'll feel.

I guess that's why I got so drunk last night. I've been trying to kind of fill my time because I don't really have that much to do, especially at night. So, last night I went out with my cousin, Q. He's my mom's first cousin, 72 years old and a swingin' Newport Beach bachelor. He's a self-proclaimed sugar daddy, never been married and owns a photo album filled with pictures of himself with women who actually look like Pamela Anderson.

I put on a skirt and heels because I've gotten sick of lounging around in the same jeans and old tank top. We went out to dinner and I had a couple of martinis and it was fun. We made plans to go off-track betting, a favorite activity of his, later in the week. After dinner, he drove us down to Newport and to my friend Liz's restaurant. It was still busy there and she hadn't been cut yet so we got a table and had a few more drinks. The chef sent out free desserts, etc... By that point, I had every intention of getting completely inebriated and boy, did I meet my goal.

Around ten, Liz got cut and I went with her and the chef to another bar, which turned out to be the coolest bar I've ever been to in Orange Co, not that I can remember the name of the place now. While I was smoking a cigarette outside, I actually heard the doorman say that he didn't own a television. I thought that it was a prerequisite to own at least three, if you live in OC.

Needless to say, I had a couple more drinks and I guess all would have gone well had I not come home and finished myself off alone. Nine drinks and I didn't even throw up. I could hardly walk, mind you, but I did not throw up.

I woke up, sweaty and alone at nine and immediately got dressed and drove around the corner to get a 2 pound breakfast burrito from this place called Harry's which seriously makes the best breakfast burritos in Southern California. I consumed it slowly, along with a massive coke, while watching Steel Magnolias on HBO. Then I went back to bed.

I finally crawled out of bed an hour ago or so. I can't believe this is my life right now. I keep having these moments, where I'm on the freeway in my Dad's Oldsmobile, or waiting in line at Harry's, practically still drunk, at nine am on a Sunday morning, and I think, What the fuck am I doing here?! I mean, what am I even doing in California? I never really meant to live here and now there is nothing at all tying me to this place. How did this all happen?
2:09:37 PM     comment []