November 11th, 2014. 4:15 p.m.
My husband left me again last night. For where, I don’t exactly know. Austria, I believe? Or is it Australia. Either way, he is going to be gone for an immeasurable amount of time. Not that it really matters all that much. I’m not self-centered enough to believe that you care at all about where he is or for how long. I promise you, I care even less. But I did go on errands this morning and I bought a dark red nail polish named Scarlet Letter. I wonder if those nail polish companies care how absurd the titles of their polishes are. Really, It’s Raining Men is the best way that you can describe a deep purple? I’d rather have my deep purple be called something like Plum or, maybe even, I don’t know, Deep Purple. But then again, maybe the makeup brands have realized that there is literally no point in creating a title meant to supplement a decision made on a purely visual level, so they hire a couple halfway intelligent forty-year-old maidens to sit at a metal desk in an office and create pathetic attempts at innuendo. I would respect the company much more if that were the case.

November 11th, 2014. 7:30 p.m.
Those “errands” I mentioned earlier? They did include going to pick up nail polish. I went to the department store right across the street from my psychiatrist. It really is convenient to pick up a bottle of nail polish after a couple hours of one sided conversation. So, I’m guessing that if you care about anything I’ve mentioned so far, it’s the fact that I visit a shrink. Why am I going? Well, he thinks I may be a tad depressed. I think that he is a pathetic man that still wears cologne he bought in high school who doesn’t fully understand how insignificant he is. If he did understand, maybe instead of spending fifty hours a week trying to dissect ages of incessant b****ing, he’d do what I did. He’d marry someone “important” so that he could enjoy endless days of superficial pleasures. If nothing you do will make any difference, than you may as well experience all the pleasures that you can.

November 13th, 2014. 3:45 a.m.
I just slept with a boy that attends the same shrink I do. He has to be twenty years my junior. I think he mentioned that he finished grad school five years ago? A baby. He’s snoring in my husband’s bed right now. But I’ve come to realize that I am revolted by him so I’m now making Easy Mac and watching that show where the girls call each other “meatballs” and the boys have a day solely centered about going to the gym, tanning, and doing laundry. I remember living my life the way they do, in college. I’d wake up and go to classes that I knew I would pass and I’d talk to boys that I knew would adore me. My actions meant something back then. At least, I thought they did. I would go to the parties with girlfriends whose names I’ve forgotten and I’d look at the stars and think, I’ve got countless nights ahead of me. So much possibility. My achievements were significant to me. But even more so were my mistakes. Hours of sleep were lost, analyzing every wrong move that could result in my future demise. But then, I had sex with a professor to ensure an A on a test that I was too hungover to study for. Nine months later, the day I gave my baby up for adoption, I accepted a date with a senior who was a successful business major at a neighboring college.
The pregnancy was pretty treacherous. My friends eventually stopped speaking to me and my parents didn’t answer my calls. I delivered the little boy all alone, except for the doctor that smelled strongly of cigarettes. I held him once. He had a long birthmark on the side of his neck. I didn’t name him.
The disgusting boy I slept with is walking down the stairs. If he asks for some Easy Mac, I will say no.

November 14th, 2014. 3:00 p.m.
All this writing about my son has got me to thinking about astronomy. The Earth orbits around the sun. It has no choice in the matter. I wonder, if it did, would it go somewhere else? If it could chose, would it maybe fly out where there were no stars…or maybe it would decide being a planet was bloody boring and it would crash into the sun and explode. Complete self-annihilation. I had a choice in the matter of my own galaxy. I could have revolved around my son. I could have settled into orbit, but instead, I chose to push him away and float around all the other planets in their dreary circuits. It may be lonely, but then again, is anything as lonely as being fixed into an orbit?
Are you understanding how clever my son/sun word play is? Maybe I could get a job as one of those important nail-polish title people. I’m sure they would love to have me. 

November 14th, 2014. 7:00 p.m.
My husband is coming home tonight.

December 3rd, 2014. 5:00 p.m.
It’s been so long since I’ve written in this book. I don’t write when he is home and, finally, he’s gone again. Right now, I’m sitting in the taxi on the way home from my appointment with my shrink. He has prescribed to me medication, but I know I won’t take it. It doesn’t mix well with alcohol. He said something funny today though.
Shrink: I’m prescribing these pills, to be taken once a day. For depression.
Me: I probably won’t take them, but I appreciate your effort.
Shrink: Why do you say you won’t take them?
Me: I’m guessing, sir, that they do not mix well with alcohol?
Shrink: Yes.
Me: Well, you see, this becomes a bit of an issue for me. Alcohol may not mix well with these little pills, but it does mix well with me. And without the alcohol, I do not mix well with anything. Actually, even with alcohol, I don’t quite mix well with anything. However, being buzzed makes my situation much more bearable so I think I’ll stick to the booze. I really am thankful for your concern, but there’s no point in you filling out this prescription.
Shrink: You know, some things do have a point. There are motivations that are worth something, something more than superficial reward.
I hope you find what my shrink said as funny as I do. If not, I don’t actually care because this diary is something that I am doing for myself and you’re as irrelevant as anything and everything else. But if you did think it was funny, then…actually, the same rule applies.

December 6th, 2014. 2:00 a.m.
I went on a walk this afternoon and almost got hit by a taxi. I had been on my way home from the grocery, and a taxi was going very fast and it swerved when I didn’t move from my position in the middle of the street. Maybe if I was traveling along the same orbit that everyone else seems to be on, I wouldn’t have almost gotten hit by a taxi. Or maybe I would have cared just a little more. Either way, the taxi man gave me a ride home which was unnecessary but also very kind.

December 14th, 2014. 1:30 a.m.
My husband is home again and won’t leave until next week. He is sleeping right now, thank God, but somehow his sleeping form is more irritating than when he’s awake. I never write when he is here but I am so filled with nothing that I need something substantial, and I don’t want to make any more macaroni and cheese so I’m trying to write. But what’s really scary is that I’m staring at this empty page and I have nothing to say that hasn’t been said before.

December 23rd, 2014. 3:34 a.m.
I just slept with another boy. This wouldn’t matter at all except for the fact that the moonlight on his neck was basically a spotlight on the long slim birthmark that stretches under his ear. And now I’m doing some mathematical calculations in my head. My…son…would be, what, twenty years old? No, twenty five.

January 2nd, 2015. 3:20 p.m.
I know very little, but one thing I do know for sure is that alcohol does not mix well with those little pills my shrink gave me. It doesn’t mix well with two, and it especially doesn’t mix well with an entire bottleful. I had a bit of a…meltdown? I self-annihilated. I crashed into my sun. And the hilarious, sick twist is that I didn’t even mean to. I walked away from my bedroom, from the boy in my bed, to my medicine closet. The rum was only meant to make the little pills go down easier.

January 4th, 2015. 5:00 p.m.
My husband is still on his business trip. I wonder if he will notice the hospital bills. I hope he does.

January 4th, 2015. 6:25 p.m.
I may be a tad of a hypocrite for writing in this diary. There are many, many pointless activities that one can participate in to distract themselves from the grand scheme of things. There is painting and dancing, drinking and eating, writing and singing. All lead to the same result, which is something that, again, doesn’t matter.
However, there is absolutely nothing I can do about the triviality of it all. And because living is, essentially, futile, there is no such thing as wasting a lifetime, right? But, there is something to be said about a legacy. Sylvia Plath wrote poems, Shakespeare wrote plays, and Anne Frank wrote a diary. Maybe they were meant to criticize or to entertain or to assist the author in enduring terrible trials. All very viable objectives that ended up fulfilling much greater purposes. So even if everything is essentially pointless, and those greater purposes will eventually make up an unfillable oblivion, there is a certain honor in creating such a beautiful distraction.
This is why I’m leaving this diary in the waiting room of my old shrink’s office. Not to convince you to take your little pills. I don’t care if you do that. However, I quite like the idea of having left a bit of a legacy.