By np
Date: 31 January 2000

Superbowl Sunday

I call you from the bathtub.
An empty bottle of Chardonnay at my side and the sweet smell of "Pretty in Pink"
bubble bath so strong it makes my head hurt.

"How's the game?" I ask

"Good.  Rams are winning 9 - 0"

I then ramble on about how I really wish my raise would go through because I'm
financially screwed this month and also my clinically depressed brother just 
called and made me feel like I'm the only person in the world he has to talk
to but I can't seem to help him with his problems....  "I'll have blood on my
hands if he does anything stupid", I say in my most dramatic tone. 
(Not to mention I'm just feeling sad and lonely and fat and really in
need of a friend since Jenel is at some Superbowl Party she forgot to tell me about.)

"Anything I can do?" you ask

"What can you do....you're watching the Superbowl."  

"What's that suppose to mean?"

"Nothing.  I know how you feel about football.  I know where I stand".

But deep inside I'm praying you'll tell me how I'm more important and you'll
be right over because me being sad is enough reason to leave your friends and
come to my aid.  After all, you're always telling me how much you love and adore
me.....

"I'll be over right after the game."  you say

And in the time those words fell from your lips I wondered if one could actually
drown themselves in the bathtub and I pictured how the headline would read in
tomorrow's paper but then quickly decided against it because I still haven't
lost those last 10 pounds and how awful it be if EMS had to drag me out of the
tub looking like this.

"Don't bother"  I say,  "I'll just see you tomorrow"

"Ok," you say back "Call me if you change your mind."

And I already had.

I hang up.

I cry for a while.

I hate football.