Good afternoon, Gentle Reader. I’m typing this on my trusty desktop, for once. That’s right, we finally have internet at the new as-yet-unnamed house. This means that I can get back to work, I suppose, besides my five hundred projects.
Yesterday, I turned twenty-eight. Although I eschew the traditional trappings of American success – I find them icky – I cannot help but feel that I haven’t accomplished nearly enough. I write, and write and write and write, and I sculpt and I play and I paint, and then in one depressive downstroke, I destroy my work. I never let other people see what I’ve done before erasing it in fire. Well, hardly ever. Needless to say, I have nothing to show for myself.
My best friend in the entire world, Miss Ward, returned to Washington last night, after a year in Australia, followed by another stint in Thailand, then Peru. I am terrified to see her. I’m not doing at all well, and have nothing to say for myself.
At one point in my life – the high point, in fact, when last I saw her, a year and a half ago – I was unreasonably flush with cash. I had innumerable friends, social rivals, openings and galas, karaoke twice a week, and a vibrant hum and throng of social activity. People liked me. When I reached the end of the money, in many cases I had also reached the end of the friendship. Since, I’ve been a bit of a charity case. I live with a few of my few remaining friends; and while they’ve never said a word, I’m certain that I’m reaching the end of their patience, tolerance, for my wicked, broken, ways.
Not only am I a wreck, I’m a dull one. I long for the days of my popularity, with some new intrigue on my lips, glorious drama backlit by the light that only comes during the cocktail hour. Without the aquarium in which I used to swim, I drape myself on my chaise. I have nothing worthwhile to discuss with my globetrotting best friend. I can’t even take her out for an evening to hear her traveling tales.
In short, I am both broke and broken.