Sept. 19, 2000

I need a new backpack.

Now, when I say, "I need a new backpack," I do not mean, "It is September and proverbial school has proverbially started and I'm feeling all old and nostalgic and melancholy and I just fucking turned 29 and despite what many people may think, I have not been having a fabulous life for the past two months, no, I have not been having a scorchingly hot summer romance with Elijah, nor have I been wrapped up in the ecstasy of a high-profile and creatively satisfying job that compensates me more than fairly for my unprecedented dedication and talent, and because neither of those things are, in fact, the case, I need to soothe my unemployed, aged, and all-together unloved ass by purchasing superfluous school supplies in a feeble attempt to relive the halcyon days of my Rockwellian youth."

What I do mean, when I say, "I need a new backpack," is, "The zipper on the little outside pocket of my barely four-year-old JanSport has decided to rebel against The Man, i.e., me, and refuse to grind its teeth together in a way that I would find infinitely useful." And what I mean by all that crafty wordsmithing is, the damn thing won't zip.

It hasn't been zipping for a while, but I have been in complete denial about this. I mean, it will zip, but I have to exert some serious superhuman effort, and even though we are talking about glorious me me me here, it's still more than a little irritating to be sitting on the subway for 15 minutes, not reading, not pheromone-emanating, not Yahtzee-playing, not crushing out on adorable, intellectual-yet-surely-emotionally-unavailable boys lost in Sartre or Linda Barry, but rather doing my acclaimed impression of a young woman with severely diminished mental capacity as I zip back, zip forth, zip back, zip forth. Zip back s l o w l y. Zipforthquick. I try to reason with the zipper: "If you zip, you will be overcome with an unparalleled felling of accomplishment and well being." I try to bargain with the zipper: "If you zip, I will buy you a pony." I beg the zipper: "Please zip. I keep my wallet in you. This is New York. I like my wallet. Please, for the love of god and all that you hold dear, please, please zip." And, finally, I threaten the zipper: "Zip, or I will give you to the drooling man with the interesting smell."

So, yeah, eventually the zipper zips, but I end up with distressed cuticles and concerned but wary looks from people whose zippers have clearly never felt the need to express their individuality in such a rude and unlikable manner. Thus, I need a new backpack.

In other news, I would like to address a few of the emails I have received since my untimely demise. As I oh-so-obliquely hinted at earlier, I am not happily ensconced in a mutually fulfilling relationship with anybody, let alone That Elijah Guy. He and I are, in fact, still doing the forbidden dance of ambivalence, though it seems we are even ambivalent about that. One day we spend 14 blissful (sic), massage-filled (yet maddeningly G-rated) hours together, and the next he kisses me goodbye on the goddamn forehead. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's all very nouveau cute an' all, but it's also starting to feel like a colossal waste of time.

Something else I alluded to is my lack of gainful employment. The job for which I ostensibly killed my social life lasted exactly one month. Or, rather, I did. I was in tears after the first day. These were not tears of gratitude, nor tears of joy. These were tears of ultimate suckage. So I quit. Much Jerry Springer ensued. Miraculously, the tears stopped.

Also, I am not dead. Many people were very concerned about this, and I thank them for their mildly inexplicable interest in my well being. Some expressed the firm belief that they would rather I be dead than breathing within 50 feet of He Whose Name Shall Not Be Spoken (apparently that last entry gave birth to a lot of worry). Let me assuage any and all fears by saying I have not seen him since that eventless night, and that is most assuredly: okay.

I think those are all the misconceptions I needed to clear up. Rest assured, I have been plagued with paroxysms of guilt for disappearing for so long without so much as waving goodbye. What can I say -- I had a little episode there. It happens. I can't promise that it won't happen again -- I can't even promise that it won't happen tomorrow -- but what I can promise is when it does happen, it will hurt me far more than it hurts you.

Well, okay. Not really.

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