The Princess Diarist(29)

I act like someone in a bomb shelter trying to raise everyone’s spirits.





He’s far from a fool, nowhere near. I’m quite near. I can feel the fool that’s so far away from him breathing down my neck.





I would like to not be able to hear myself think. I constantly hear my mind chattering and jabbering away up there all by itself. I wish it would give me a fucking break. Write, don’t think, write. You’re not thinking properly, Ms. Fisher, I suggest you write.

If anyone reads this when I have passed to the big bad beyond I shall be posthumorously embarrassed. I shall spend my entire afterlife blushing.

I’m scared. Scared that I’ll let Harrison hurt me. That I’ll change plain old leaving into abandonment again. It’s no mean feat. Hurting might be familiar but it certainly isn’t fun. It’s a bit pathetic to set yourself up to be humiliated or passed over or whatever and then at the last minute deciding it really wasn’t what you had in mind—perhaps you could show me something in rayon.





None of us have been really given the opportunity to explore the possibility that, given our own situation, we might not choose to see one another. We’re thrown together and we make the best of one another if for no other reason than convenience. Would we still seek out each other’s company in “REAL LIFE,” when we regained our temporarily suspended perspective? I don’t think we could honestly say at this point. We could very easily be deceived by the sheer convenience of one another and the seeming absence of options. At this point your main objective would be to find someone—anyone—as long as they were close, willing and this side of the grave. (It’s not difficult to live up to those qualifications.) Something handy, immediate and as human as possible. We aren’t really in the position to be choosy. The real test is being in a situation where it’s not just convenient—where there are a substantial number of alternatives to the more than likely possibility of coming down with a case of 24-hour loneliness.

Anyway as George’s wife Marcia says, we’re gold in the same place (referring to the theory that we look for people that are gold in the place where we’re shit and shit in the places where we’re gold), so instead of picking up where you leave off, we pick up and leave off in practically the same place (that place being somewhere between high school and Gilligan’s Island).





I do not want to take part in my life. It can just go on without me; I’m not giving it any help. I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to talk to it, I don’t want it anywhere near me. It takes too much energy. I refuse to be a part of it. If you have a life, even if you get used to it ruining your sleep, spoiling your fun, requiring your somewhat undivided attention, what overwhelming relief one must feel when it finally skips town.

I don’t like having to keep the spinning plates spinning on top of all their various and sun-dried poles. From now on they can fall off the poles and break for all I care. I censor myself and where the fuck does it get you? Gussying up your thoughts and putting them to paper.





A woman’s place is in the home



Seated by the telephone



Men sow their wild oats



And women are sown





Here I am again



Making the same mistake



Instead of learning my lesson



I just establish a new record to break.





What’s the riddle?



Me talking so much



And saying so little





She: One of us is boring.

He: Why do you say that?

She: Because . . . well, we’re just sitting here, not talking.

He: What’s wrong with that?

She: Well, I don’t know. Probably nothing—it’s just that we don’t need each other for it.

He: For what?

She: Being quiet.





The itsy bitsy spidered his way up my water spout



He little Jack Hornered his way into my corner



And now I can’t get him out



He ate all my porridge, sat in my chair



Slept in my bed, washed himself into my hair



Hey, all you king’s horses!



Whether you’re horse’s asses or men,



Could you pretty please piece my heart



Back together again?



Love has made me what I am today



But as to what that is I really couldn’t say



One thing’s for certain



I am quite alone



Cause there are none so quiet



As those who will not phone



And there is no one as far past caring



As he who just don’t care



I’ve washed that man right into my hair



He’s sat in my chair and slept in my bed



He’s eaten all my porridge and climbed inside my head