holiday.

Close examination of my reflection indicates that all of the time and effort spent on makeup application was futile. Sure, concealer and blush probably moved me from “frightful” to “worn out.” I definitely look as though I haven’t slept or eaten in days. My skin is this ultra-bright white that can only be granted by an autumnal drug binge.

Zach is going to assume that Ryan is to blame for my bedraggled appearance. Poor Amanda has probably been holed up in her room for days, crying and writing letters that will never be mailed. But honestly, I have barely thought about Ryan. I’m slightly annoyed by his phone calls. “Dude, you’re harshing my mellow.” If only I could say that with a straight face. I don’t care about him or breaking up or the possibility of spending my life alone. The same goes for current events, the weather, clean clothes, and checking the mail. I really don’t care about anything right now. It’s liberating.

Wait…I DO care about buying more drugs today. Oh fuck, should I call that guy now? To set something up for later? Otherwise I will have to wait until after the movie.

But first, hang out time with Zach. I buzz him into the building. He’s too nice to mention how terrible I look. He probably won’t even allow himself to think the words “Amanda looks a little grey today.”

Fortunately, he’s also a little green around the gills.
“Remember how I invited you to Rainbo last night?”

I do not recall this conversation. I smile blankly.

“Well, things got rowdy. Or drunk, I guess. And then I was fighting with Heather and puking and calling people. I’ve never been that drunk before.”

I promise to cure him. First, I have him wash down four Advil with a glass of raspberry Emergen-C. Next, I toss a b-vitamin at him. Lastly, I lovingly prepare a can of Campbell’s tomato soup for him.

While he is eating (with his head lying on the table), I tiptoe upstairs to the living room with a piece of Hello Kitty paper. I hope he won’t hear me dialing the phone. As if he can not only determine the number entered by the sound of the keys, but also somehow know the number for the only heroin dealer making deliveries in the Wicker Park/Bucktown area.

He answers. Oh thank god.

I whisper into the phone, “Hi, this is Amanda. I live over on Paulina? Well, I was wondering if you wondering if you wanted to come over later? LIke seven? Cool. Bring what you brought the last time. Thanks!”

So convenient. Like ordering a pizza! And definitely less creepier than trying to find the guy that lives in the construction site off of Grand.

Zach is feeling better. “You are a miracle worker, Amanda!” As the words are leaving his mouth, I practically push him down the stairs and out on to the sidewalk. We have to make the 3:30 showing! Otherwise I won’t have enough time to withdrawal money and then get back to my place by seven. It’s a long-ish walk.

I should have told the guy eight o’clock. But I just couldn’t wait that long. Sixty additional minutes!

We walk to the movie theatre on Clybourn to see Charlie’s Angels. I really love Drew Barrymore, okay? And Crispin Glover is in it, too. So how bad can it be?

The theatre lobby is empty. “I thought EVERYONE went to the movies on Thanksgiving,” I exclaim.

Zach just shakes his head. “Maybe we’re just seeing a crappy movie.”

More likely: we are the only pathetic, unloved individuals in the Chicago metro area. And we’re both stinky. Zach smells like old booze. I’m certain pills and opiates are seeping out of my pores. An olfactory delight! Happy Thanksgiving.

I have to admit, I have always hated this stupid holiday. Something about it always made my mom crazy. Maybe it was the overall stress of hanging out with our extended family. She spent most of the day screaming at my brother and me. I hid in the bathroom, hoping for a few moments of peace. I wished that school was open on Thanksgiving. Even now, I can’t see a pilgrim or Butterball turkey without panicking.

Thank god the theatre isn’t serving turkey and cranberry sauce today. I demand that we buy a huge box of popcorn. Of course it’s stale. Who wants popcorn right now?

The movie itself is okay, though the third dose of Tylenol with codeine that I take during the previews may have enhanced my experience. Still, I’m antsy. I check my watch no less than 100 times. How soon until seven? I break it down into minutes. And then into seconds.

We eat approximately four bites of popcorn. Zach insists on taking it with us when we leave. “Amanda, it cost eight dollars! We have to save this!” Somehow I end up throwing most of it into the river. I think it is hilarious. Zach is not amused. “That was my Thanksgiving dinner.”

So now I have to make him a dinner out of the strange assortment of food in our freezer. Fuck. I have to get this done before seven. Why was I compelled to throw that fucking popcorn in the river? Dinner is completely beige and fried. Nary a green vegetable in sight. Pretty delicious. I had forgotten about food.

Soon it’s 6:45 and I’m practically pushing Zach out the door. I say something about having a “period problem.” He leaves after coercing me into agreeing to go out for drinks later.

Twenty five minutes later, I’m fifty dollars poorer and one thousand times happier. I unplug the phone and throw on a Stevie Wonder record. I sprawl out on the rug in my room, wearing only my underwear. Everything is going to be just fine. I turn to Stella and declare, “This is the best Thanksgiving ever!”

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