Left work today, fled that basement biblioteque home away from home, and after a week or so of feeling, as often as not, on the verge of tears, managed to make it through the apartment door before collapsing on the floor in excellent hysterical-girl fashion, sobbing, scaring away the cat, squashing the mail, and generally making a mess of things.
Not sure what it was about, entirely, other than the obvious things: the departure of one's brother & all around best friend for the opposite side of what is an entirely too wide country; the awkward if not entirely unpleasant recent chatting with one's ex-boyfriend and one's ex-boyfriend's girlfriend, both looking all together too happy and too well-dressed and too California sun-kissed gorgeous for one's taste; the marvelously magnificent marriage of two of one's best friends, when one is decidedly alone and about a million years away from anything of the sort (not that, in one's saner, more balanced moments, one actually minds this all that much).
What one does to recuperate from the aforementioned hysterics, of course, is pick oneself (by which, of course, I mean one's self) up off the floor, pour a good-sized shot of Jim Beam, call one's dear friend Lauren, and commiserate over the folly that is life, the unfortunate lack of brownies in one's apartment, and the apparently horrific experience that is driving in Long Island summer traffic.
And then one watches several episodes of Heroes on one's computer and drags oneself off to bed.
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