How To Do Monday Night For bruise-hearted faggots who have considered annihilation and death when parts of the rainbow flag (the red, purple, and blue parts) was enuf.
How to finally get out of bed, after seven false starts. Drink sour bad coffee from the bodega near the train. At work in the morning, your boss keeps threatening to fire you, via e-mail. Take it personally. Eat a small salad for lunch, with cashews and resentment and cucumbers. Think long and hard about sleeping pills vis a vis Winona, Britanny. Fail, utterly, at your job in the afternoon. Work as hard and as fast as you can, and still don't finish on time, still with mistakes and still without having alphabetized all of the entries because you were iworking as fast as your blithe little fingers could carry the paper. Leave in a huff. You run home mid panic-attack and you worry how come your jobs make you feel so scared and hurt. And you worry about no one ever liking you, that maybe you fail at everything because you are a basically deficient person. You think long and hard about the words "Personality Disorder" and about how you don't really have many friends, let alone the guys you're dating who you alternately idealize and plot to murder. You get into a screaming match with your mom on the phone. You change clothes into your party outfit and you run out the door.
You're running because you've accepted an invitation from your gorgeous friend Jiddy. You meet her in the West Village and you both look fabulous. You go into what appears to be a church but is in fact a luxury condo, where a gigantic bouncer asks your names, but doesn't check them against the list. You take the glass elevator up to the penthouse, where a young socialite who reminds you a lot of that television show 'Gossip Girl' is snapping polaroids. It is an insane "art opening" with guest list including international fashion moguls who made it big in the early 1990s, and their adorable daughters. It is a room full of adorably / obscenely wealthy 14 year old girls and they have all the best shoes.
A woman wearing all black, with long Japanese-straightened red hair and high heels that put her well above your own stately 6'2" offers you Pernod in a cocktail. You have two since Jiddy can't drink. You eat hors d'oeuvre and the private photographer eyes you suspiciously because you look famous (and in some respect are, if only because you say so). You are wearing tight black pants just like the ones your ex-boyfriend used to wear when you would go to interminable SoHo wine bars and he'd regale you with tales of growing up next door to republican politicians. You just wanted the pants. And a blue and purple sweater (you're the only one wearing color). And bright green John Fluevog shoes. You finish your drink and go back downstairs, where the bouncer isn't letting anyone else in.
Jiddy and you scrounge for cigarettes and go out for Japanese food, fulfilling your most beautiful ego edification fantasy in a long time. You kiss her goodbye and walk through the village, smoking, looking gorgeous and feeling Pernod-loose, listening to Sarah Cracknell.
You come home and gab with your room mate. take photos on her new computer. Marvel at your own face, after all. Sometimes you need to act, or presume, a life of an égoïste in order to not throw yourself in front of the train. Think long and hard about the performance piece you're doing on Thursday. Eat a vegan chocolate cookie and read a Diana Ross biography in bed.
That's how you do it.