i ate chocolate. not dark chocolate. milk. b is passed out in the bed the next room over. i opened the bar like i poured the wine, quietly, not wanting to be caught. i am reminded of my young self hiding quaker chewies in my dresser. i'd eat the whole box in an evening. first one guiltless, then two with excuses, and within an hour or two all six (eight?) were in my belly. because i knew they'd keep plaguing me all night. because i knew if i didn't eat them i wouldn't get a lick of work done. tonight it's the pms, or the baby, that i'm drowning in cocoa and pinot. because i have to have them because they are there, and whether it's me calling or them calling, someone is calling.
i remembered how my father used to mumble to himself under his breath. if i were to write a YA book i'd probably include this detail. i'd probably include some things about my mother, too, but I find them completely unspeakable in any kind of non-fiction circumstance. i can't weigh their level of horrificness against my own deep need to keep things to myself. these books are reminding me.
i've read three such books already and i've just started number four. i did a short writing assignment that only took a few minutes. i'm easing in. i realize what i've always realized, always known, that i hate school. i hate smarmy teachers and their silly exercises, i hate pesky self-absorbed classmates with their endless need to impress, i hate the whole academic publication chain that produces boggling amounts of excrutiatingly soulless text. i haven't even been in a classroom yet, and i'm trying to like this, really i am. if for no other reason than it would be so great to be on the other side of it.
i was in europe when my college diploma arrived. i was in a phone booth in my tiny swiss town where i lived for my second-favorite four months of my life. "are you sitting down?" my mother asked, the same way she had when i got my acceptance letter from the same prissy college -- me in yet another public phone booth -- over 6 years before. "i got your diploma in the mail."
i didn't say anything for a moment, trying to wrap my head around the news. i would have choked back tears, but mostly i just cry at sappy movies and tv commercials about lost pets. mostly i don't cry at my own life.
"are you there? isn't that wonderful? honey, i'm so proud of you."
my mother doesn't call me honey, but i didn't want to use my name just there. but that's what she calls me. my name.
"wh... what does it say?"
"beats me, it's in latin."
i snickered. fucking latin.
i numbly thanked her for the news and tried to search for some meaning in what she'd told me. there was none.
it was a piece of paper, no measure of my knowledge or my worth. i knew this every day i spent tormenting myself in its pursuit. i swore to myself, swore, that i would never waste my time or my money chasing paper ever again.
and here i am. printing my syllabus and highlighting the important parts. geeking out at staples over pens and plastic paper holders. (okay, i do that anyway.) reading books i don't particularly want to read, writing things i don't particularly want to be writing, and doing my gosh darn best to convince myself that it makes sense for me, that this is what i want. and maybe it is somehow and maybe i just don't know it yet, or maybe i knew it and forgot it, or maybe i suspected it but have yet to know it. maybe.
i'm just tired and i want to drink more wine than i'm allowed. i tip the bottle slowly and angle it for maximum silence.