Lost in Something (most likely self pity)

So is anyone else out there ridiculously lonely? I suppose it’s partly my fault for not really leaving the house this weekend, but I wanted to. I wanted someone to call me up and take me on an adventure, to drag me laughing through the streets, to dance with me, make me laugh, make me cry, make me feel something other than the usual “there is a piece of me that’s missing” nonsense. But alas, it was not to be.

I found myself saying in an MSN conversation that I am starved for physical contact, that I am like a baby in a Romanian orphanage. I probably stole that analogy from a Coupland book. I did just finish reading Eleanor Rigby after all. I am totally afraid of getting old alone, but then again I am totally afraid of being 24 alone. And 25. And 26. Etc. Today I watched Lost in Translation with K and every shot of Tokyo made me teary eyed. I still feel like I have something over the people in the film though (although I guess at least Scarlett Johanson gets to look at her boobies every day) because I could vaguely understand most of the Japanese in the movie. When I first moved to Tokyo, we lived for two weeks on the 28th floor of the Keio Plaza in Shinjuku (where the hotel in the movie was), so even though I was ten then, everything was very vivid. It’s amazing how well Tokyo is captured in that movie. I sometimes wish I could tell people about what it was like growing up there, besides the usual “I was bullied at the horrible American school” (speaking of which, they keep writing to my parents for donations, the other night after a few drinks I almost started a letter back to them asking for the money I spent on counselling), like the smell, and the noise, and the time trhat I saw a man pushing a handcart covered in little glass bells for sale and there was wind for the first time that year and it was the last day of sixth grade and every single one of the bells was ringing. I can’t do it justice, but I think Sofia Coppola did.

I can’t remember the other things that I wanted to write about. Maybe it was a plea for some company, conversation, contact. A hand on my back between my shoulder blades, a hand on each of my hips steering me in another direction, which brings me back to Tokyo again, 5150 and the guy is 35, so twice the age that he thinks I am, and he thinks Beth shouldn’t be smoking and that I shouldn’t be hanging out with her, and that’s ten fucking years ago.

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