I'm staying at home today because no one wants to see my face. I had a bad day Monday -- well, bad, makes it sound much better than it actually was -- and I cried so hard that I burst a blood vessel in my eye. There is no longer any white in my right eye. The outside is no better. It looks like some cutting-edge Urban Decay make-up artist smeared blood-violet eyeliner and eyeshadow all over my eyelid. I tried to make the other eye match but I don't have any purple makeup.
The best part of it is it looks a little like someone punched me. I've always wanted to have a black eye. "Yes, I live a radical and violent life. I never know from one day to the next where I'll be sleeping or who will try to rape me." So I told the Chinese guy at my corner store that my boyfriend sometimes beats me. He didn't say anything. Just asked if I wanted three packs of Camels for the price of two. Still, I think, deep down, he cares.
So the crying jag was set off because I lost a briefcase containing all of my boss's financial information: bank accounts, credit card numbers, passwords, social security number -- everything anyone would ever need to know to royally screw up your life. Now, for the rest of my years on this decaying planet, I have to walk around knowing that I am responsible for any identity theft that might ever occur in this man's future. I have to quit my job. I'm not stable enough to be carrying around anyone's social security number.
Then I kept crying because of my life. I always thought that, by this point, I'd be a success. But for all intents and purposes, I'm kind of a nothing. Everyone tells me, "Oh, you should go to grad school." "Oh, you should write." But I want to act. And that's not happening but I refuse to cave. I'm holding out for the first quality reality show.
I looked for my copy of "Lost in Translation" but I guess I lent it to someone - someone who doesn't understand the depth of my dependence on that movie. I feel like Scarlett Johansson's character. Really what do you do with an English degree from Yale except make fun of people who don't know that Evelyn Waugh was a man? I just wish I had her ass and those sheer pink panties.
So, here I sit, watching "United 93" to cheer me up. Somehow, I feel it's my duty to absorb as many miserable details about September 11th as possible since it's my birthday. I even watched the HBO documentary that actually has extensive footage of those poor people hurling themselves out of flaming windows. I don't cut myself or anything. I just inflict inner pain.
I'm proud of myself, however, that I'm not reading "The Bell Jar" again. Instead, I'm flipping through Didion's "On Dying." It's really good. You know, if you like reading about death.