The Diary of Antoine Roquentin

So. Um. It’s tomorrow. Today.

Something like that.

I hate my linear existence. So last night, Alex and I had “the talk.” Well, he initiated it.

We had gone out with some of his friends to this Moroccan restaurant (like the wet dream of what the Kasbah wants to be) and smoked from a hookah and watched the belly dancers.

His friends had driven us home, me riding in the center with one of his friends who was horribly drunk and playing with my hair sitting on my lap, since there wasn’t really room for all of us.

Okay, I’m deflecting.

So we’re lying in bed about to fall asleep after that really fun day, and he says “Okay, we have to talk.”

Basically, it’s one of those “it’s not you, it’s me” things.

He says that he doesn’t want to date me because he’s not willing to commit to me enough to like drive to Sacramento, and that after he breaks up with someone (his ex Ben that he got the “[island]” tattoo about) he has to go through a few guys and he doesn’t want me to be one of them.

Which is sort of a contradiction in terms, since he has sort of gone through me. He says he wants to be friends though, which I’m not sure if that’s a copout. We both say we never talk to our exes. So are we exes? I guess. In some way.

I need to buy my Amtrak ticket and try to get out of this day with some dignity intact.

I guess this is the best way that it could have worked out. I don’t feel as like, horribly needy…that “I just want to hold you or I’m going to die!” feeling. I dunno, I guess I didn’t really get used to it so this world is just like a dream.

Sacramento is a dream.

And when I’m back there, this will just be a wisp of a memory. Lying in the warm sand on Ocean Beach watching a cute dog dig a hole off in the distance. A coy glance on the MUNI.

Meh, existence. That’s all I can say.

I experience things, I don’t understand them, and life goes on. I guess. We’re listening to Hole, which has put me in a sort of “fuck the world, I’m punk rock” mood, which I secretly endeavor to be in all the time.

I won’t really know how I feel until I get on the Amtrak, put on my headphones, and select what song fits my mood.

I am pretty sure it’ll be Dresden Dolls. But it just might be Bjork. Actually, I will have no clue until I’m alone.