I spend as little time in my apartment as possible. I hate coming home. The presence of my ex in my home is entirely palpable, in the form of ceiling high stacks and piles of the residue of his obsessive compulsive collecting and trash picking. I do not think most people can even comprehend the state of my apt. Beyond the thousands of CDs, LPs, videos, books and dvds, is the stuff. You know those things that he found on the street or in flea markets that, at the time, I understood how cool they were. Exhibit A-a fare box from a bus before they took metrocards, B-a four foot by two foot unisex hair salon sign that used to light up, C-the partidge family style suitcase. But then there are the things I never understood in the first place, like the bag of beepers or the broken plaster statue. It is nearly six months since I left him and at least twice a week people ask me if Craig has gotten his shit out of my apt yet. I don't think anyone gets why I haven't just put it all out on the street yet. Besides the fact that even doing something seemingly as simple as that, would take close to two weeks straight, I'm clinging to the idea that we can still be friends. While walking out on him may have hurt him deeply and angered him, throwing out his stuff would be an irrevocable act of war. I keep maintaining that I am just not that much of a cunt...yet.
I've been wandering the streets, not quite aimlessly, but taking these long, long walks. Yesterday I walked from soho to park slope. I had wanted to see Joint Security Area over at BAM (which didn't happen as they were missing a reel) and when I was about to descend the subway steps, I just didn't want to go underground. I thought about catching a cab, picked up some chinese food and found myself at Canal & Bowery. There was still about an hour and a half before the movie started and so I just decided to walk across the Manhattan Bridge. I have great high school memories of eating chinese food halfway across that bridge at 5am. They must have changed the walkways or I was on the wrong one, because we used to actually be sitting above the cars and I was always amused at what people must have thought as lo mein noodles hit their windsheild. This time I was along the southern edge, level with the trains as they blew past. I stopped at what I think was the halfway point and stared at the water for awhile. Please note: I AM NOT SUICIDAL. Do not misunderstand the following statements, entertaining a fleeting thought and taking an action are two entirely different things. It struck me that the fence on the walkway was not very high and if I were to climb it and jump that in all probability I would be dead within ten minutes. I would entirely cease to exist. This would be no tentative wrist cutting cry for help, I would certainly die, if not on the way down, or more likely at the moment of impact, there was just no possibility of rescue. The bridge walkway was deserted, no one would even know I had done it. I did not fantasize a graceful swandive. I knew it would be a bumbling, screaming tumble.