A mutual friend had foot surgery and needs to stay off it for four weeks.

Friend: I can’t believe she has to stay completely off her foot for four weeks. That’s so long! I’m glad she has a full time nanny, a husband and both moms around. I’d better make her a casserole or something.

Me: yeah I know it’s tough. I had to stay off mine for eight weeks, and I live alone.

Friend:

Me: but she has two small kids. I know it’s different.

Friend: yeah but you’re tough.

Me:

We get together more regularly now, my old friends and I. I try to make sure to see them when I go down to see my parents, which is more often now that Dad is so frail. But after a certain number of beers, the conversation inevitably turns to the tragedies. I know not everyone had teen years like these. I’ve met a lot of people over the years, and  I know this isn’t normal. After dinner, we drink and talk about our dead friends. We’re damaged, B. maybe most of all, he was in the room when D. shot Leon., but all of us, interrelated in our damage for sure. Maybe it helps to talk about it, at least it’s not a secret here. But I can’t have the same conversation over & over. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have done anything more. We tried. We failed.

I texted the boyfriend yesterday and asked him to come by, and he promptly made plans to stop in tonight. Brought flowers, ordered dinner in with me, watched three episodes of The Good Wife. I know that being friends is the right thing to do, and I’m really trying not to be petulant, so I figured just telling him that I wanted to see him was better than sitting here with hurt feelings. I was right.

I looked up an old friend and we had dinner and it was nice and I wanted him to see how great things were for me now and it went too well and he kissed me on the lips good night and asked me out on a date and all I wanted was for him to tell our mutual friends that I was doing well.

Let’s not forget that I was all alone tonight. Not single one of my friends, or the men I’ve been dating, called or texted to say happy new year. And as much I’d as I’d like to say that doesn’t matter, it does.

I could have easily been with either the French Boy or K. tonight but I chose not to. I’m still doing exactly what I didn’t want to be doing — playing social director for a bunch of people who couldn’t figure out how to make plans on their own — but the truth is, they are my peeps and I do love them all. And I just couldn’t be bothered to be on a date tonight, none of them are special enough and I did not want to send the wrong message. If I happen to pick up a date along the way of the evening, well, what can I say? it’s been that kind of year. But if not, I’m okay with ending the year alone, this time by choice. (although I will admit here, my admitting place, that I also chose not to change the sheets, instead just used my ironing spray, so I will sleep tonight amidst the scent of lavendar and young French boy… perchance to dream of love in the coming year. perhaps I am ready.)

ran into an old neighbor on the subway, always liked her but haven’t seen her in — well, it turns out over a year. her husband has cancer, mantle cell lymphoma, and he’s chemo resistant but just had the ileostomy reversed and when he’s healed from that, needs a bone marrow transplant. they found a donor but it’s only 9 points out of 10 and although that sounds good, apparently it’s not but as she said, the closer you get to dying the more they’ll consider a 9.

i gave her my number and hope she’ll call to go get a drink one day. i always liked her.

J. shared my profile with A., this sort of slutty looking girl he’s fucked before. So now we’re on. She’s not really my type, but I claimed not to have a type, so what the hell.

The three of us sexted all afternoon and most of the evening. I sent some relatively modest naked pics from the bathtub, she sent one with her finger up her ass. He sent repeated pics of his ever-increasing hard-on.

This should be fun. I am going in with an open mind and open legs. Probably an open ass by the end of it, too.

I do understand why people keep diaries. I started this, in a way, to be able to post things I could’t post on Facebook. I keep FB very positive — it’s too public for me to want to be whiny or depressed or cranky.

It’s been very, very good for me to be able to post things honestly here. Yes, it’s a little compartmentalized — I don’t post much of the happy shiny updates here, any more than I post about breast cancer and suicides on FB. But having the outlet? it’s been a good thing.

So thank you, dear, gentle, imaginary reader.

May 22 and I didn’t cry. I knew what day it was, and I’ve spent some of the usual time thinking about S. and letting my heart break just a little again, but I didn’t cry. I wanted to post a tribute on my Facebook — so many high school friends are there now — but May 22’s the day he died and that’s not the day I want to remember. May 21, even worse. Can’t begin to imagine what that longest day was like, for him, for his mom.

I’ll post something on his birthday in two weeks, maybe that will seem more fitting.