I Gave My Hands a Bubble Bath (Unabridged and Part II)

Then at the restaurant, (yes I was here, wasn't I?) I got all this food and it tasted great. I was quiet so I slipped off into the bathroom and felt the eyes of the potatoes on the plates of old men staring at me, and the walls were a little too green for my green tastes. I felt insane, so I washed my hands. But when I lifted them to a towel to dry, they still felt filthy. I felt filthy. And it was a feeling that didn't go away. Because I knew that when I walked out into that restaurant, every effing window would scream a symbol at me and every person and their words that dripped like chocolate bunnies in an oven, all of it, all of it, it wouldn't stop. As long as the Earth spins, so does my head. And I think my head will win this staring contest. But I dried my hands anyways, gave myself a choked smile in the dirty mirror and left the clean bathroom. The potatoes greeted me: "Hello, Amy!" "Creep!" I replied. You'd think they were pirates or something. I went back to the table and left and put on "Kylie from Connecticut."

KYYYYYLIE, IS CALLING, FROM CONNECTICUT! called Ben.

"Creep!" I replied. Damn you, you pirate. Over to the bank we drove. The bank was fun because it had lollipops and when I went to Quizno's the other day, I remember whenever I got pickles and that dude at the counter stared at me, I imagined in my head I was screaming "Fuck yeah pickles!" Like a freak. Maybe then they'd all go away. You know, if they thought I was obsessed with pickles and profanity.

So at the bank I got a lollipop and I looked at the trash can. It was ugly. There was a suspect woman with a suspect bag of money there, in a paper bag. Curious, I left. I was still nose-deep in thought and I know why I'll never drink: I'm already drunk. I'm already high. I'm already stoned. It just comes with being me... If you think that stuff is bad for you, just wait until you sit down and try to be "wise" at age 15 (almost 16). Then your brain will be fried, but not from loss of brain cells: from a gain! And then you'll grow up scarred, filming suburbia in your underpants and sprinkling the lawn with ketchup while you stay up making cakes with your husband at 4 am (now THAT is what I call the good life). So my brain is fried. I wonder if they have rehab for thinkaholics? Hmm. Investment.

Anyways, then we drove over to some building that reflected the cars passing behind me. I felt like I was watching a play where Ben (Songs for Silverman was on by this time-- I'd moved on from Ben Folds Five the album and Way to Normal) was the soundtrack to my car-watching. They all looked the same and none of them revealed any faces or anything; for all I know, they could have just been ghost cars floating along to Hell. I don't really know. Does anyone? And they didn't see me at all. I was just some girl blasting "Gracie" and laughing and sitting with her feet up. Oh, well. I sat there for a while and just enjoyed music. The way life should be (plus the ketchup on yards and stuff you know!). Heading home, I was nodding off and I went up to my room. I played Way to Normal (Hey, do you think I've referenced Ben Folds enough in this entry or what?) at least 3 times and dreamt of Kylie. Kylie, Kylie. And Cologne.

Before Cologne and Cologne make me so sad. I mean, come on... It's about a divorce. I guess "Bitch Went Nuts" is a little less tender. And "Errant Dog." Then I opened the window and just looked outside for who knows how long. Observing the street that will one day miss me. I'll miss him. I miss all them. I missed the past and the future all in the moment.

Well, later I made a cake.

Well, later I listened to Regina Spektor.

And I know... You know how you know when you're famous?

People making a YouTube video of one of your songs played backwards. Then, my friend, you are famous.

Now it's some time of night and I have to go upstairs. And eat something.

And put a warm sock on my face, but we all have our ailments and idiosyncrasies.