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The sermon for Tuesday, Mar. 26, 2002 is: Stupid 10:23 p.m. Once upon a time, a long time ago when nobody died, I would become infatuated with someone quite intensely for a very brief, very bright time; and write of said person; and most often have sex with said person; and then become disaffected with said person; and then spend the rest of my life defacing the name out of my once-rapturous writings in my diaries about said person. I should go on now to say I would like to do this now, but it's sorta stupid. I've been sad today. I thought about killing myself today, idly, as a sort of antidote to what a blah day today was; and went about saying this to random people. My co-worker Alison took me seriously and told someone who told someone. Upshot being that I spent most of this afternoon speaking first with an RA saying no no no, I was just being dramatic, and afterward with a "crisis counselor" just saying no, no, no, I was being dramatic. And while I was talking to these people I kept screaming in my heart, GODDAMMIT PEOPLE, CAN'T YOU TELL THAT I'M LYING!? I smiled and said, No, I feel fine. CAN'T YOU TELL THAT I'M LYING? I got a number of a suicide hotline-- ha, what a fucking joke. The last time I called a suicide hotline, I shot down all the carefully rehearsed "reasons for living" the suicide hotline trainnee lobbed at me, until finally the guy said wearily, I think I should transfer you to my supervisor, and then hung up on me. Huh, I said to myself, the guy hung up on me; and then I went and hung myself. Luckily or unluckily, Princess decided to pay me a suprise visit and, luckily or unluckily, came upon me dangling in the breeze. She cut me down, and there is that. Suicide's stupid. Life is even stupider. Alison, when she thought I was joking, suggested that I score again. Dear Diary, should I go back to doing drugs? I mean yeah, I'll go back to doing drugs, but should I go back to doing them tonight? I'm totally broke, and won't be in a position to comfortably spend the nights and days high as the Red Balloon again until my scholarship comes through (if it does-- last semester's been kinda sucky-- maybe because of the drugs-- note to self: do more drugs in order to succeed). This means another 10 days at least of enforced sobriety. Perhaps I will kill myself in the meanwhile. Meanwhile, I've been re-reading my stupid poetry. Larsen strongly, strongly urges me not to send any of my poems to Colleen, pointing to the historical fact that past poems have sent girls I've been interested scurrying to their psychologists and religious leaders. Maybe I've been overinfluenced by stupid movies like Moulin Rouge, where people sing their hearts and die splendidly as a result. There is a certain glamour in being stupid.
 
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