Scrubs Season Opener

It's a Sunday after the day where I watched the Virgin Suicides before the night where I rode into NY City to go to a party where I met a man from Italy who put his hands on my hips and kissed my cheeks and asked me for my phone number. I didn't get home until six o'clock in the morning, but that had nothing to do with Roberto, or Marc, or Alexi, or the rest of the rockstars at the loft-party where I circulated as a stranger under the pulsing party lights. I just can't read a stupid train schedule, and I missed the train I should have been on. I was suprised to see that normal people ride trains at 5:22.

The Italian won't call (I don't want him to, he's not irresistable), and I'm still solitary here on an island soaked by Hannah's residual rains.

I just want to pull into Denny's after midnight and see Lindsay and Bianca and Tylere and Jeremy and Glen and shit!Shit! When I talk to my friends I have to answer the question, "how are things in New York?"

MY FRIENDS AND I NEVER ASK, "HOW ARE THINGS?"!!!!

We get together, and talk, and we just know.

What kills me most is that it's been a month that I've been here, and this month has been like trying to stifle a scream that no one else can hear. But my friends are in school, and they're busy, and they all have each other, and I'm only one person gone. One more person. They know I'm neither the first nor the last and so no broken hearts. I know they love me, but I want to be missed. I want to sense a distant yearning for me that pulls back on this yearning I feel for them.

I want them to watch the Scrubs season opener and think it doesn't feel right without me there.

This is a diary; I can be selfish.