On some days, everything seems to conspire against me. Like today, when the cold, rainy weather, new medication, time of the month, and lack of sleep all decide to get together and give the Lyme Disease a standing ovation. By the time I've finished three hours of essay tutoring and come back from dinner, I feel like I can barely walk. I'm still wearing my PJ's, haven't showered in three days, and have spent the last 2 days reading Shakespeare and researching Haitian politics. It's Friday night! It is Friday Night! I refuse to spend the whole weekend in my bed playing Final Fantasy III and watching Bones again. I am going to a party.
But oh, the arthritis, my knees, my hips, my wrists my shoulders my back ah, god, I'm such a weakling and all I want is a drink, a hit, a dose of something that'll leave me drifting in a cottony world above myself and the pain and the way I can hear my body creak like an old ship. Okay, Helena. One step at a time. The gay community is having a Lady Gaga themed party tonight. I want to dress up.
Thank you, ibuprofen with your minor pain-fighting powers. One hour and two White Russians later I'm riding on the back of my friend's power chair on my way to a drunken performance of Julius Caesar. This is Shakespeare the way it was meant to be played. That is, if Shakespeare was meant to be played in front of an audience passing around bottles of wine and making homoerotic jokes about Brutus. "Oh snap!" I shriek. "Tell it like it is, Calpurnia!" Caesar comes onstage and a group in the front chants, "Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!" My friend throws pieces of cucumber from the aisle.
Times passes and I become less and less concerned with the play and its raucous audience and more concerned with the White Russians that have managed to sneak their way through my system. Each scene change brings me closer to intermission but the call of Mother Nature will not be ignored. Knives appear from under togas! Fake blood splatters everywhere, dripping from the players' hands! It's like the sound of a running tap to my poor bladder and I have to make a dash for the door, stumbling through a sea of feet and folding chairs.
Relief. On the toilet I check my messages; Julius Caesar is far from over but another friend wants to go out for Boba so I ditch the Shakespeare and meet her in the parking lot. Every person I see tonight reels at my appearance and I keep having to explain, "I'm going to a Lady Gaga party" over and over. Somehow, I've made it all over campus and across town in this outfit but don't reach my destination until all of my friends have left the party, and everyone on the dance floor has already paired off. No less than four acquaintances of mine have apparently just been rejected by the objects of their affections. Bummer and a half. I don't try to take advantage of these lonely ladies' situations (in some cases it's tempting), but I offer a listening ear.
It’s a night for wandering. I walk a lonely lesbian home and she asks me why I'm not in love. I tell her I don't want to feel responsible for anyone. I'm practicing selfishness and autonomy. I don’t tell her that I'm also afraid of what that depth of feeling would do to me. Instead we part at a crossroads and I break into a basement party where I don't know anyone and have a conversation about music and psychedelics with someone who has a more favorable opinion of them than I do. Eventually, I find my friends at home playing Starcraft and we talk for a while before I finally leave.
This is my fourth cup of tea. At 5:43am, I am 32 minutes into the Spice Girls' movie on Netflix. Today, I realized that the bear in my half-finished novel ran away from a traveling circus after fighting an addiction to sugar. I love staying up late.
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