October 31, 2002 | 8:59 AM

So last night I go off to meet the Boy for coffee�you know, the boy who stopped me on the street a few days ago, wanted my phone number, told me I was beautiful, and then asked me out.

I arrive at the designated place and designated time, which is outside a cafe in Cambridge. It is dark and cold out and the wind whips right through my flimsy dress and tights.

I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait.

20 minutes goes by.

There are several girls standing in a cluster a few feet away. They are all wearing tight jeans and smoking long skinny cigarettes. They are talking about another girl they don�t like.

I start thinking about how much people really and truly do suck. That you cannot trust anyone. That it is much safer, easier, and better to be alone and wall yourself off from anyone you haven�t known for ten years.

Another 5 minutes goes by.

The guy who has been playing guitar a few feet away rubs his hands together and puts his instrument in his case. It is too chilly out to keep bothering everyone with obnoxious Cat Stevens covers.

I start thinking about the upcoming war. And about how many people in the world are starving and that nobody cares. I think about how the music industry and the movie industry are so fucking corrupt. I start thinking about how I�ve probably been fooling myself that anything really matters at all.

Another 5 minutes goes by.

A homeless man comes up to me and asks me for change. I give him a dollar. He pulls a bottle out of his pocket and takes a slug.

I start thinking about how I don�t know if I can trust anyone at all anymore. And that it�s not that I�ve been hurt or disappointed that bothers me so much�it�s that I feel like I�m losing all of my idealism about people. That I have stopped expecting the best from anyone or looking for the good or trying to understand. That I just cannot fucking take anymore without becoming guarded and defensive and cynical�the type of person I never ever wanted to be.

Another 5 minutes goes by.

I look into the window of the cafe and there is hardly anyone there.

This Boy is not going to show up.

I walk around the corner and I buy myself a bottle of over priced Chardonnay. When I get back to my apartment, the heat is blaring. I open the window and I call my Mom. I say,

He didn�t show up.

And she says,

I�m so sorry honey.

And I start to cry. Mom interrupts my self pity fest.

It�s stupid to cry over a man you don�t even know who asked you out and stood you up.

And I tell her,

That�s not it. That�s not the problem. The problem is that five years ago, I would have assumed he had some kind of emergency. And now I�m assuming he�s evil and plotted this out just to hurt me.

There is a pause. My mom says,

I don�t understand.

I start crying so hard I know she probably can�t even understand what I am saying. I rant and blabber.

I just don�t think I can live this life anymore feeling like I have to watch everything I say and that I can�t risk feeling anything about people or about politics or about the world because it�s all so fucking useless. And I feel like everything is just a lie. The government lies to us. Our friends and lovers lie to us. Children are abducted and tortured. Corporations are just out to fuck us in the ass so they can make a buck. What is the fucking point of even being alive?

My mom tells me that she loves me and to get some rest and that I need to challenge this belief system I am developing.

I hang up the phone and I stare at my wrists. I stare at the veins. I think of how easy it would be to just slash them and how much I would love to watch the blood spill all over my floor. That I want to cut myself. That I am so fucking sick of living.

I call the suicide hotline. A lady with a Spanish accent answers. She asks me if I want to die.

Yeah, I do. I�m not going to I don�t think because it would fucking kill my mother. But I want to.

She asks me why I�m thinking about death.

Because I don�t feel like I can trust anyone and I hate that I�m turning into the type of person who doesn�t trust anyone. I don�t want to be that person but I can�t stop turning into that. So I don�t want to live anymore.

There is a pause. I continue.

I know this sounds uber ridiculous. I�m like this privileged anxt ridden post teenager. And there are all these people in the world who are horribly repressed and oppressed and have reasons to want to not live and yet they continue to go on and they fight the good fight. And here I am, fucking stupid heartbroken �My So Called Life� twenty-five year old slacker who is so self involved that I literally don�t appreciate anything I have. And that makes me want to kill myself even more.

The Spanish lady tells me that I am very very young. That I need to connect with people I love. That if I really want to kill myself I should go to the emergency room.

I thank her for her time and hang up the phone.

I stare at my wrists and I look in my cabinet for a carving knife. I tell myself I�m not going to use it. I just want to hold it in my hands and stare at the blade.

At that moment, the phone rings. I pick it up on the first ring.

It�s Eric. I burst out sobbing. I tell him,

I just called the suicide hotline.

He gasps.

No you did not.

Yeah I did.

Oh my god that is so Afterschool Special of you.

The ridiculousness of the entire situation hits me and I start laughing uncontrollably just as I am sobbing uncontrollably.

I know. Oh my God. Lifetime is going to make a fucking movie of the week about me. I�m outdoing Judy Garland, even.

Eric starts singing �Over the Rainbow� in perfect Judy mimicry. I laugh even harder. The laughing is winning out over the crying.

Listen, Brian and I are going to come up next week and take you away on a vacation, OK? Anywhere you want�Vermont, Providence�wherever. We�ll get a hotel room. I�ll talk you into loving life. OK? For right now, have a glass of wine, listen to Madonna or showtunes or anything uplifting. Fucking �Oklahoma!��put on the �Oklahoma!� soundtrack and know I�m coming to get you, and just relax and don�t take yourself so seriously.

I tell him I love him and then I hang up.

I check my email and there�s an email from The Boy:

Hey Anna, I'm really sorry that I did not show up tonight. There was a pretty serious emergency that I had to deal with at work, and I was not able to get away (my advisor basically did not let allow me to leave). I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. I hope you'll forgive me, and maybe we can get together some other time. Love, The Boy

I roll my eyes. At him. At myself. At the suicide hotline. At the world.

I don�t know how I feel about anything except I�m really glad I didn�t slit my wrists.

I put on a Charlie Parker record.

And I fall asleep on the couch.