I Think I Screwed Up

In my attempt to hang out with a friend
who really needed to get out of the house, I think
I made things worse. We were listening to music--
some old Linda Rondstadt (as if any Linda Rondstadt
were not old!). I wanted her to hear some Jeff Buckley.
So we listened to Hallelujah, and she went to pieces.

I didn't expect that. I didn't know if she'd even like
Buckley. I had forgotten what happened to me the first
time I heard Buckley sing Cohen's Hallelujah. I went
to pieces as well. There is something in his voice--something
powerful, spiritual, needy, hurting, longing, aching, whole
and pure. I should have thought that one through.

My head still hurts. It has been hurting since last Saturday
when I was in Lexington visiting my friend. I don't know when
I vomitted last, but I let loose that night. Scary thing was
her face when she saw the last bit of vomit. She said, Not good.
The water is pink. Meaning blood. Little bit, it seems. I was
afraid because she was afraid and then I thought, she's smart
and strong and if she's afraid maybe I should be, too. But my fucking
head hurt so bad and I was so nauseated that I just couldn't let
myself go anywhere except to the couch. I don't know why
there was some pink shit in the puke, but I hope it's something
explainable that does not include ulcer or varices.

I have been more surrounded by friends and new acquaintances
of late that I find it hard to believe all I can do is still think about
how alone I feel. The outsider. The hard one. The hard sell.
The sellout. The idiot. The whiner. The hard core know-there's-
nothing-gonna-help-your-sorry-ass baby. The leave me alone
already and let me die freak. The holding on to bad news/
can't be no good news sadist. The I need excuses so I can keep
drinking fool. Where is my f***ing break?

If I don't give it to me, how can I expect anyone else will?

Started reading some Annie Dillard last night, and my plan
was to come home tonight and just get in the bed and keep
reading. But, I started drinking, and then I started calling
people. I don't know why in the hell I do that. I can't call
people when I am not drinking. But, I drink so often that
it's a rare night that I don't call someone.

Am I an alkie? An abuser for sure.

Seems pretty screwy to me to be sitting at a computer at 10:45
p.m. typing such nonsense when I could be reading Dillard
or making love to my husband or eating a dark chocolate bar
or out of town listening to some music or just living. Is this living?

I am beginning to believe only terribly lonely people who have
no life spend time on their computers. I mean, really, would a
person with a life be out here typing in anything?

I don't think so. I think they would be f***ing living life.