My Freaky Saturday (and a week after that)

We all know that the morning after is usually not a pretty one, right? Especially when the ugly truth of having fried my laptop and cheated on my boyfriend (in order of importance) hit me. The physical hang-over was non-existent, though: I remembered everything, which made it all much worse.

I mean, seriously? how could I have done all of that? How much could my life have changed in a week? How much could my life have changed in one night! Yet there wasn’t enough time to horrify about it. I had to get my laptop fixed and that was priority number one, so I grabbed the wallet, the iPod and the keys: quiet reflection and epiphany came to a second place in the event of not having a Facebook account to check obsessively.

How had it all started? I asked myself, lying down on my bed, laptop fixed and thinking mood on. How the whole me dating a drug dealer who happened to be the gentlest man I had ever met had happened? I had had the best week I had memory of and I had brilliantly fucked it up, due to some absynth and a blonde girl who triggered my very sensitive let's-blow-the-whole-thing-up mode. Of course, me having dated a drug-dealer could have been very well construed as a flare of the very same mode. Didn’t matter though: things were fucked, thoroughly and inexplicably, and the cause was the least of my concerns back then.

So, it sucked. Basically. It sucked on Saturday and Sunday and Monday and Tuesday. It sucked through the hospital hours and through the coming and going, it sucked through the beach afternoons and the Indie Rock Playlist, it sucked at night and it sucked at mornings, it sucked. Really. It did. That’s why when I logged in Facebook Wednesday afternoon and I found the inbox Diego had sent me my heart started beating a tattoo on my chest.

Diego February 23 at 11:32
What happened to you the other night?

Me February 23 at 4:00
Absynth, apparently. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry about that night.

Diego February 23 at 4:02
I sure hope so. Tomorrow, coffee?

Me February 23 at 4:03
Perfect.

Thursday I woke up in peace with the world, with plans of calling Diego and giving it another try. The hospital was great, and when I came back and opened my Facebook account the only thing I wanted to do was to send him an inbox and get him back.

Didn’t happen, though. The first thing on my newsfeed was a picture of him with the blonde girl, looking like an item, fingers touching each other and a painful comment saying “having a good time there, Diego!”. I updated my Twitter status to a “why does a blonde girl always have to be involved?” and closed the laptop. It was time to read the psychiatry article I had been procrastinating.

I did manage to read the article, as a matter of fact. Diego had just won the privilege of being graciously kicked out my brain by Kretschmer’s personality theories.

It was about time to go back to my group, the one I had so mindlessly left when the blue-eyed beau had entered my life. I had been sent inboxes and emails, not to mention the invitations I had declined in hope of meeting Diego once again. The party of the weekend was Marcelo’s birthday, to which I had not been invited because at the moment we didn’t speak to each other. Morpheus, another acquaintance of mine, was also celebrating his birthday.

I went to the live-stream HD opera that early afternoon, with the Elf's aunt and sister. At night I put on my red heels, the blue blouse and the red lipstick once again. I certainly wasn't expecting anything to happen, but it did. I never saw Diego again. It didn't matter.