Will my boyfriend text me back?
Group texts are the worst. I'm getting a new text every five minutes and the light on my phone makes me anxious and I don't want to talk to any of these people right now and none of these texts are from my boyfriend so I don't care about any of them.
Should I take this Xanax? Why aren't I drunk right now. Fuck, I could be drunk right now. There's beer in my fridge. I could drink it. But then I would be tipsy for work tonight, and I'd be tired. And then I definitely couldn't take this Xanax. Don't want to die.
Am I an elitist snob, or am I actually smarter than these people? I confer with Keely, and she confirms that we are elitist snobs. I am comforted in our mutual snobbery. We then discuss romantic versus minimalist literature. Snobs. We should have stayed up North.
Keely writes screenplays. They are diverse and complex and witty. I write plays. They are heavy and violent and sad. Keely writes love poems to girls she meets in France. I wrote a love poem once. My boyfriend will never read it, but I recited lines from it to him once when I was drunk. Keely read it. She said it was funny to see me showing an emotion that wasn't anger.
Where's my cat? Is she peeing on things again?
This play I'm working on isn't passing the Bechtel test. Should I add another women character? How would that play into the world I'm creating? If I add another woman character it will just be one of my friends. What purpose would she add? I don't want to have her distract from the action of the play or have the scene be commentary on other action, but it might be good to show the main character in a scene where her behavior is not defined by the men around her. The play is passing the Mako Mori test though, because it's all about the behavior of a woman. Is my life passing the Bechtel test? That might be a good Facebook status to post. "Make sure your life is passing the Bechtel test." Should I post that? No, it sounds kind of douchey. Don't say that.
There's the cat. She's scratching at the furniture and meowing. She wants to be fed. She's a brat, just like I'm a brat. She wants to be scratched all the time.
What if I use up all my good material in this play and then I can't write any more good plays? And people want me to write more plays because my first play is a success and then I can't write any more plays, but everyone knows I'm fucking weird because I wrote this play? What if my boyfriend breaks up with me because he reads this play and realizes I based a character off him? Not just based a character off him, but pulled bits of conversations about his mental health from our real life and then typed them up.
Will there be food at my office tonight? The guy I work with who tells me he loves me will buy me food if I ask. Almost all the food in my fridge right now is food he has purchased for me. That's not a lot, though. My goal was to be so demanding, so awful, that he would stop trying to make me love him. It isn't working. He does whatever I say. I like it, but mostly I hate it.
I went to the health center to get my annual STI check and pap and the gynecologist tried to push hormonal birth control on me again. She said some statistic about condoms only being 80% effective even when used correctly. That doesn't make any sense. She asked how long I'd been with my current partner, assuming that because I'm sexually active I have a sexually monogamous partner. I didn't like that. I said seven months.
One of the light bulbs in my bedroom is out. I could text the maintenance guy. I don't want to text the maintenance guy.
These fucking group partners keep texting me. We keep fucking up our projects.
I'm going to take this Xanax.
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