I’m not a good person. But I’m not a good person who never has to set foot on the campus of Westerfield ever again. A reporter was at graduation asking questions about the suicides last year. What was life like without Heather? How had the school coped with the loss of the best and the brightest? Did any of us feel like offing ourselves right now?
92 days until Port Chester University and my escape from Ohio.
Martha and I are going to rent a movie to celebrate. She wanted the Princess Bride but I keep having flashbacks to fucking the Dread Pirate Roberts. I’m holding out for Road House instead.
Today the Womanists were chanting “This penis party has got to go” on the quad at lunch. I gave up on getting my reading done and went to go see what the Frisbee team was up to. They invited me to their party tonight. The theme is “snow frisbees”. I don’t know if they are snorting coke or getting baked and going for slushies. The Womanists are invited so it should be high on the weed and low on the date rape.
Roommate Vickie is trying to fix me up with a boy from the Pit. I told her that I had my heart broken by a high school boyfriend who had scissors for hands. Fuck me with a manual chain saw.
It was more plausible than the truth.
Today, let us reflect: I escape Ohio. I’m valedictorian at PCU. Four years, 40 classes, 7300 cigarettes, and untold thousands of diet cokes and I EARNED my film degree. My valedictorian speech was upstaged by a swan.
I move to Houston with Vickie, I’m working at doing my filmmaking. But a gas card is saving us. This evening we had a dance party at the gas mart.
“Our love is not god.”
I can get my own slushie.
How many years of penance must I pay to get this fascinating horrible awful dead asshole’s voice out of my head? I reclaim this Cherry Slushie for myself. I choose art and love and life. I am 22 years old. My teen angst bullshit is done.
Talked to Betty Finn today. She’s engaged to a Corporal Hendricks, and they are getting married in June. She invited me to the wedding but I passed. I can’t go back to Sherwood. We are going to try to meet up when they drive through next summer.
Today met with a therapist. So very NYC. So very. This afternoon I had my first session. He says I can tell him anything. I can’t sleep well because I helped to kill three people and celebrated the suicide of the fourth. There’s no statute of limitations on murder
Dr. Katz tries but a man with broccoli stuck to his forehead can’t handle the truth.
Instead of telling him about my murder and commitment issues, I told him I was raised in a house full of ghosts. Every morning we got up two hours early to do sun salutations and every afternoon at four o’clock we would sing the Banana Boat song with a chorus line of dead football players. I’m afraid I’m starting to see dead football players every time I close my eyes, offering up date rape and AIDS jokes.
He seemed to believe me.
I need another therapist.
Seth’s committed me to the Claymore Psychiatric facility for observation. Of every terrible thing I have ever done in my life this one little cocaine overdose is what was taken as a cry for help? My short film is in 20 separate festivals I need to be out and about promoting it, not trapped in this throwback of a Cuckoo’s Nest. This is why we are divorcing.
I need to get out of here. Lisa is like a Heather gone psychotic. Mood swings and emotional damage all the way down. I am going to either drown or fall under the waves in love.
I want out.
Martha says someone is writing a book about school murders and suicide after the Columbine thing. They found her by her pharmacy license and wanted to interview her about Westerfield.
She didn’t want their pity, and said that the media attention was the worst part of the whole thing. Didn’t tell them where I lived.
I tried a new coffee shop today. Central Perk. So very very but it was hot, I was tired, and they had bathrooms. Who do I run into there?
Rachel Green! I haven’t seen her since PCU. She basically lives at Central Perk with this whole group of friends who are really overly involved in each other’s lives. Usually it takes more than five minutes to discover someone’s multiple divorces, especially when not talking to them directly. I think it might be this guy’s pickup line.
Turns out that Rachel and I kissed when I went to a Kappa Kappa Delta party with the Womanists. I didn’t remember too clearly but I kissed a lot of KKD girls at PCU.
I’m going for a slushee, a cleansing sugary brain freeze. Hopefully I won’t find true love.
Queen Bees and Wannabees is getting a lot of press. All about how mean high school girls are and how they can be made to play nice. I don’t know who they interviewed but these girls aren’t anywhere close to mean enough.
Thank you god: I’m a grown adult with a job and a boyfriend and I don’t have to deal with this bullshit.
Talked with Betty Hendricks. Jason is getting out of the service, they just moved to Lima. She emailed me a picture of her husband and girls. She’s having another baby in June, and very excited.
I’m 32 years old, divorced, and a filmmaker who works in advertising. Betty seems happier I couldn’t handle her life, chasing after babies and
She suggested I see this new movie called Mean Girls. Said the main character reminded her of me.
Dear Tina Fey,
Fuck you. Your mean girls wouldn’t last five minutes at a real school. Did they put valium in the water?
You should have called it ‘marginally less nice girls”
Agents Reid and Hotchner with the FBI are came up from DC to meet with me.
This justifies smoking again.
They want to know about JD and his dad and the explosion at Westerfield. I freaked out for nothing. They mostly wanted to know about Big Bud Dean Construction Company and if I had ever heard anything about how they stored explosives.
The name Heather was never mentioned, and I wasn’t volunteering anything. I did tell them about JD’s mom.
Reid had the crazy eye but is strangely attractive.
I’m not going to call them if I think of anything else.
Los Angeles continues to be a hot sunny expression of hell. Met a new guy this week, a writer. We have chemistry, he’s hot.
He writes people’s suicide notes for a living.
I think my crazy/hot axis is broken...
Had lunch with Martha. She’s in LA for some sort of big Star Trek convention. She and Chris decided to spend their 10th anniversary as Klingons.
I wish I liked Klingons. Man or woman, I seem to only be attracted to murderous psychos. No more yuppie scum, no more stoner boys, no more mostly straight sorority girls. I’ve moved across the country four times and what have I gotten out of it? An ex in every city?
You know what? I’m tired of my own poor taste in dates and companions. From here out I’m going to stick strictly to the fictional. I’m going to write my own story, one where a calm, brilliant, and unmurderous man and I fall in love. Like a Vulcan. A Spock.
Fuck that. I’m gonna marry a Vulcan. A distinguished and diplomatic, age appropriate, Vulcan.
And we will live happily ever after and nothing will ever blow up.