Springsteen, Madonna, way before Nirvana...

[sunshine_queen]

Spent two freaking hours going through magazines in hopes of finding Justin Theroux.

Instead, I found Jen. And Coop. And Judy. And Cary Grant. And Carrie Fisher. And freaking DAVID DUCHOVNY.

But, alas. No Justin. Le sigh.

I really should do homework. The chem isn't going to do itself, you know. And neither is the french.

And since no one else is online, now would be an ideal time.

Mmhmm.

And going through fics episode-by-episode on 'Cover me' isn't healthy.

Nope.

I don’t remember the first time I met him.

 

I can name the date, the location. I know what I was wearing, how I must’ve looked. I remember how I felt, perfectly, clear-cut. And I can remember what he said to me, how he acted, and how I acted.

 

Yet I don’t remember meeting him.

 

This is something I ponder over, alone in this new cabin of mine, Jim Morrison in my stereo. His watch stopped, and I could’ve cared less, stuck in my own world. I wasn’t particularly nice to him. My jaw hurt. My jaw hurts now. I pop some aspirin.

 

I can remember losing him, and finding him again, but that was more of a corporal memory than an actual recollection. Finding him alive after losing him Taipei was being able to breathe again.

 

Jim Morrison is hot. Was hot. And really talented.

 

I can remember the lyrics to hundreds of songs, including every popular song by The Doors. I can remember birthdays and when the Germans surrendered in World War II and the day the Berlin Wall fell and when the Soviet Union became Russia again. I can recite Shakespeare and Keats and Dickens and I know what pi equals and how to find a function in any equation. I can quote Friends, even, and Seinfeld and some of the Austin Powers movies and I can definitely do dialogue from the original Star Wars trilogy because my best friend watched them religiously.

 

And I can’t remember two years of my life.

 

An interesting sieve, I have.

 

I can remember him best of all, which is not only ironic but pathetic, as I don’t know him at all anymore and never will again. Never.

 

I thought, at first, it’d be easier to hate him. Because when you hate someone you don’t lose your breath when they enter a room. When you hate someone, you don’t dream about them. And when you hate someone, you don’t lie lie lie about moving on.

 

I remember, purely, precisely, seeing him again for the first time. Horrifyingly clear cut details, the tremor of his voice and the glinting gold and cold betrayal that isn’t. Wasn’t. Because it technically isn’t a betrayal.

 

And I need a drink.

 

I was once able to handle deep thought without the use of alcohol. Philosophers and religion, I studied them all, and I could debate with the best of them. Back when deep thought didn’t have any elements of a tawdry Harlequin romance or a teen age drama.

 

Hello, I love you in a hallway. Passed notes and flirty glances and hey, my friend thinks your friend is kinda hot. Where does he eat lunch? Next thing you know we’re holding hands in the hallway and people are whispering that I’m his girl. He’ll carry my books to class and we share a locker and I bring him a lunch from home so he doesn’t have to buy. Tru Luv.

 

Yeah. Having that drink now.

 

Jim Morrison was a genius. His lyrics are brilliant.

 

I wonder what he’s doing.

 

He’s probably at home, with Her. I’d really like to hate Her, almost as much as I’d like to hate him. She’s prim and pretty and polished and polite and poised and blonde and obviously what he wants. Now they can live in some sweet little house in the suburbs and have darling little Aryan babies

 

The All-American girl that isn’t.

 

I have nothing stronger in the house than Diet Coke. And I’m breaking on through to the other side.

 

If he didn’t love her, he wouldn’t have married her. I know this. He’s not selfish enough to marry someone just so that he wouldn’t be lonely. He’d have to love her. As she loves him. And I bet her mother isn’t a homicidal cold warrior. And her father is probably normal. And she’s probably very normal, underneath that accent I just can’t pinpoint.

 

And she can probably cook and clean and keep house and host lovely parties and I’m actually kinda glad that if he had to marry someone it wasn’t Alice.

 

I wonder if her normalcy allows her to appreciate him like I did. I hope so. It’d be such a waste if she didn’t value his actions and his voice and the cut of his jaw and the color of his skin in the sunlight and dammit, why am I out of tequila?

 

She’s practically perfect in everyway, she’s sweet and submissive and a good little wife. She’s good for him, more importantly, she’ll keep him safe and make sure he doesn’t work too late and eats right and he’ll love her forever and ever and I will wind up going out and buying some hard liquor and a quart of chocolate ice cream.

 

Is it wrong that I search for a flicker of something, interest or lust or attraction or love, when I catch him looking at me? I know it’s wrong that I wait for him to look at me, that I can feel his eyes on me. I’ve never been one to harbor fantasies about being the other woman, to get thrills thinking about breaking up a marriage.

 

No matter what prior claims I might’ve had on him. Two years have rendered them null and void. And I’ll have to accept that.

With my friend Jose Cuervo.

 

I’m stuck thinking a lot more now. Me, Jim, and Jose, when Jose’s around. Jim’s always there for me, though. People still think I’m iffy- some even think I’m a threat, and who knows, maybe I am- so I’m not being asked to stay around work to help with other assignments and people think I’m weird anyway (damn Sydney Lazarus Bristow) so now, instead of going home and hanging with my best friends or my boyfriend, I hang out with a bottle of alcohol and a rock star that’s been dead since before I was born. And sometimes my neighbor and ex-boyfriend’s best friend. And I think. Sometimes too much.

 

I like my couch. It’s pretty. It’s from the Pottery Barn. I overpaid for it.

 

I pick up my remote and turn Jim up because suddenly I’m lonely and I want him to drown out the silence. Him and the guy who plays the electric organ, whose name I can’t remember. Can anyone remember the name of the band members other than Morrison? Overdosing made him a legend. Dying made him immortal.

 

Funny how things work out.

 

Jim’s loud, but he’s not loud enough. I can still hear the silence. Dammit.

 

I should join a gym, maybe. Have somewhere to go when I’m bored. I should go out, at least. A bookstore, maybe. Buy a novel. Get a coffee. Sit in the coffee shop with said coffee and… pick up guys. Except I wouldn’t. I’d sit there, with my coffee, and my book, and I’d ignore any guy brave enough to try me. Sit, miserably, with some pompous classic or another because I don’t know how to read trash and a coffee with a sugar ratio of 1:5 that was ridiculously expensive… and be alone. Hell. I can sit at home with prestigious novels and oversugared coffee for free. And I can have Jim here.

 

Diet coke is a poor substitute for alcohol.

 

I’m emotionally attached to someone who it legally attached. And in the state of California and in the eyes of pretty much everyone, legal beats emotion like rock beats scissors.

 

Sometimes I want to call his new phone number just to hear him answer the phone and listen to him breathe. I won’t lie and say I haven’t actually broken down and done this. Last time I did, though, she answered the phone and now I fear that new, strange number. Because that sweet chirp was really painful.

 

I bet she went to ballet and her parents went to recitals.

 

I should get transferred. Dad and I could stay connected over the phone. Maybe the urge to call him would be less if I had to do math to figure out what time it was in California. Maybe I could stop caring.

 

And Jim Morrison is still alive and having a scotch with Elvis. I know.

 

 

 

 

And that's all I have so far. Yay.

 

 

TOMORROW! THE DVDS COME OUT TOMORROW!