Honestly, Helen

                                                                                             Friday-June 3rd- 6p.m.

Dear Journal,

Here we are, as suggested by my therapist. Can’t a girl have a bloody meltdown in the public library any time she pleases? Well, not really a meltdown. No, just a moment of frustration actually. Frankly, there was some screaming aloud to myself and the occasional deep sigh, and some sobbing so I suppose I understand how strangers might see it that way. I suppose that is understandable when I write it and re-read it. Anyhow, it has led me here in the bathtub with a beer in one hand, and you in the other. I have been advised to write down my events of the days, and my feelings about those as regularly and honestly as possible.

I’m already bored.

If I’m honest, (which I always am) it seems I am always one step away from utter destruction or exquisite happiness. It is like a see-saw of some sort. As of late, the prior has become a more likely turn of events. Yep. Life is pretty much rubbish right now. Bills piled higher than my dirty dishes, and loneliness that not even a room full of cuddly puppies could fix.

Well, you haven’t tried that one yet, now have you Helen?

*Note to self: Create an online post entitled “Lonely 20-something Seeking Puppy Cuddles Following Dreadful Heartbreak.” That could very well do the trick. At any rate, I’m sure to have some sort of a social life following a post like that. *More on that later!*

Back to what I was saying, life is absolute rubbish lately. Even my grocery store trips have turned completely miserable since a peculiar, grey headed woman cashier arrived last month- covered in diamonds. That’s right. Covered in diamonds, and working at the Midtown Market. Who needs a cashier job when you’re that old and rich? The downside to this you might be wondering? I’ll tell you. It has become quite apparent to me that once you reach a certain age in life, you begin to lose track of time, and you typically do not care to try to find it. Translation: A simple juice run becomes a full on conversation about the good old days and how lucky I am to still be young. Gag me. Rich, old people kill me with their “Oh to be pretty and young again” lines at precisely the wrong moments. It never fails. As soon as I am having as decent of a day as possible, I run into some well-meaning and overly eager individual. Today that individual was Martha. Our encounter went something a little like this.

“My what a beautiful dress you have on today, Helen! What I wouldn’t give to be so young and pretty again, like you dear! Back in my day, a dress like that would have cost a pretty penny. You would have had a special date with a special fella in a dress like that. I remember once I was courting a young man- son of the Mayor, ummm…let’s see, what was his name…? Oh I remember now. It was Benjamin Corbin! Oh what a handsome and bright young man he was! All the gals were just wild about him! “

“Look, Martha there is nothing I’d rather do than listen to you go on and on for hours about how wonderful your youthful years were and how many rich boyfriends you had in places I will likely never have enough money to visit, but….”

Oops. Did I say that aloud? Nope, she’s still smiling creepily at me. Phew, close call Helen.

“Martha dear, I’m unfortunately running very late for a very important meeting.”

With my DVR and Ben and Jerry.

“Could we maybe pick this back up the next time that I run in for more cranberry juice?”

“Sure dear, sure. You come back real soon to see me and I’ll tell you all about my fling with Mr. Corbin.” She winked knowingly, and gave me a sly smile, while handing me my bag.

“Splendid!” I grabbed the bag, and made a dash for it before she tried to force that wrinkly receipt into my now sweaty palms.

*Note to self: Don’t ever get a flippin’ UTI again and cranberry juice runs won’t be necessary.

Oh to be young and pretty again. Good one, Martha.

[Knock, knock]

So much for a therapeutic bath. Wonder who it is? Angry apartment manager Jim asking me to sign over my first born son as a form of payment before he is even conceived, or my gaudy grandmum inviting me to the monthly Potluck breakfast that somehow always manages to carry on through lunch and dinner? Fingers crossed that it is Jim. Signing off for now.

Honestly, Helen.

                                                                                         Sunday- July 5th- 10 a.m.

Dear Journal,

Potluck was delicious. A bit on the elderly side, but probably the most scrumptious arrangement of food ever spread before my hunger-filled eyes. Rather glad that it wasn’t Jim now. Although, I wouldn’t mind a visit from Bart right about now. Bart is a middle aged creep who smells of whiskey, and has a bad habit of wearing his shirts 1-2 sizes too small. Primarily though, he is the stubby guy that was hired to pretend to give a crap when something breaks or stops working in my apartment. We have come to be very friendly, Bart and I. Could it be because after my most recent breakup with who I deemed the “love of my life”, I am now so dreadfully lonely and pathetic that I am intentionally ruining every major appliance in my living space just for the sake of having some semi-regular company? That seems to be the opinion of Jim who makes a point of reminding me just how many times Bart has been to my apartment alone in the past year every time we chat. The loathsome truth however, is that I live in an actual, absolute dump. One week the A.C is out, and just as I begin to accept my fate as dying from heat stroke, in rushes (read as: wobbles) Bart!

Ahh, my drunken hero! The next week when I realize I am fresh out of underwear and should really get started on my massive pile of dirty laundry, the washer locks up on me, and the dryer smokes. This particular incident has honestly happened entirely too many times than it should. Today, those two things were working just fine. My refrigerator on the other hand, was not. Had it not been for those delicious boiled eggs I kept from the potluck, I might have not noticed until it was too late to save anything. But, thanks to those eggs, I was alerted by the pungent aroma at around 7 a.m. this morning. Lovely. It is now 10 a.m. and still no sign of Bart to the rescue. My stomach is angry with me and I can’t help but wonder if those eggs are still edible, or should be tossed? More importantly, how many people on my floor were woken up to the same smell? Better get that taken care of. More later.

Honestly, Helen.