It has been a long time since I last posted, which I realize isn’t going to fly most of the time. The last week has been truly Piscean in all ways possible: I returned home to New York from Los Angeles on Wednesday morning (after having been in four more cities prior), I have spent nearly all of that time asleep or drunk, and I have barely gotten out of my gray slip, to the point of building other outfits around it for when I HAD to go out. I didn’t realize how sleep-deprived I had actually been until I woke up and realized I’d missed the Full Moon, i.e. all of Thursday and most of Friday. (Which, in Libra, may have been a close call, but maybe not, for reasons you’ll find out below.)
Friday night was a wrap party for another show I worked on earlier this year, and I wasn’t even going to go until someone reminded me that it was karaoke and open bar. I am glad I went, because I had a really good time during the part I remember. Usually I’m a complete lightweight who stops at one and a half drinks (known affectionately as “Nurse Lucy” to my friends), but I know for a fact that I drank WAY more than that. I remember eating a lot of mediocre sushi, I remember singing “Sweet Child O’Mine” and being told I had a great voice (by someone who was also undoubtedly very drunk), and I vaguely remember singing something else but having someone whisper back-up vocals to me while holding me up. Then somehow I was in a cab, and I came home. And that’s all I consciously remember.
Of course, since I’m only an occasional total alcoholic, in the morning or afternoon or whenever it was that I woke up, I had to make sure that I hadn’t done anything stupid. All my belongings were intact. All my clothing was intact. The only telltale signs of anything being slightly off were that my knees were all bruised, for some reason Netflix reported that I had watched an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents called “The Older Sister,” and my phone reported that around one in the morning I had called the man who recently dumped me. Wha-at?!
Now mind you, with the exception of one e-mail exchange a month after the break-up, with the promise of further communication after he’s less busy, we’ve had no other contact. And it says the call was only thirty-three seconds long. So I figure that possibly 1) he didn’t answer, 2) he hung up, or 3) I called him with my ass by accident, as I am sometimes prone to do when my phone is in a pocket or garter belt. An honest mistake. I think? I’m not sure. Mars and Uranus are both conjunct my natal Mercury right now- had I paid attention to that, I probably wouldn’t have even brought a phone out. (Then again, had I known how drunk I would get, I probably would have eaten an actual dinner first too.) But the fact of the matter is that the call is complete and total news to me- which means that I am NOT some kind of Glenn Close freak- and he hasn’t acknowledged it or me in any way- which means that at best he didn’t even notice. Or at worst, won’t ever talk to me again. Which would be bad, because I am still kind of a little obsessed with him, in the most innocuous non-bunny-boiling way possible.
When you’re me, and your disposition is more Victorian than anything, prone to blushing excessively when embarrassed and crying at the slightest provocation, and you have a natal T-square of Mars, Venus and Chiron, and Pluto is your final dispositor, not to mention transiting Neptune and Chiron on your natal Venus, it does not bode well for your coping skills in the wake of failed relationships. My most recent counter-intuitive strategy has been to watch a lot of slasher movies. Like more than I usually watch. As crazy as it sounds (but this is what Pluto does to you), I can almost sort of understand why the killers need to kill and possess their victims in the way they do. Ultimately all they want is unconditional love and acceptance, which they were deprived of in childhood, so they try to create it with trophies and relics from their murders. It’s actually really sad, when you think about it.
But what I remind myself just as I start to worry that I am truly psychotic and capable of murder is that the killers in films don’t truly know what it means to love- they see their victims as disposable objects. They don’t have any regard for their victims’ feelings or needs, which is why they can just as easily “love” a piece of their victim’s liver or their severed head as they can the whole live person- sometimes more, even. Eventually, we all have to come to terms with the fact that someone we love just may not love us back, and move on. And yeah, it’s painful as shit, but if we can’t do it, we are crazy. If we truly loved them to begin with, we would not be dictating their emotions, assuming that they always felt the same way about us.
So in sum, if he wants to contact me again, he will. I have every reason to believe that he will, but if he doesn’t, I can’t make him. The least I can do is stop imagining how the conversation will go, and stop beating myself up over how I’m imagining he feels, because I don’t know, and I can’t know until he tells me. In the meantime, I have only my feelings for him, which I must make sense of regardless, and which I must point out do not include anything you would find in a B-grade slasher movie.
In the meantime, I think I’m done drinking for a good long while. I more than got it out of my system, I think.
