January 03, 2003 | 8:08 PM

I just got back from 7-11. One of the 7-11 cashiers has been hitting on me relentlessly over the past month. The last time I saw him (which was right before I left to go home for Xmas) he gave me his phone number. I didn�t really think anything of it�figured he did that to all the girls and wouldn�t even remember me the next time I came in. Boy was I wrong.

I walk into the store and he motions over to me.

Hey, why didn�t you call me?

I hate these situations. I don�t want to get into some weird conflict. So I was just like,

I�ve been out of town. And I�m really too busy.

I turn around and walk down the aisle and he follows me (!)

I�ve been waiting for you to call. I get off work at 11. Do you want to hang out?

I pick up a roll of toilet paper from the shelf.

No sorry. I�m busy.

I turn down another aisle and look intently at various pints of ice cream trying to decide whether I really need Haggandaaz.

7-11 Guy is right at my heels.

What about tomorrow?

I pretend to read the ingredients on a carton of Chunky Monkey Ben & Jerry�s.

Nope. Busy.

Well what about Sunday? Or next weekend?

I decide in a split second that the way this evening is looking I need a super size bottle of cheap Chardonnay.

Sorry. I�m really really booked. Can you unlock the wine fridge for me?

7-11 Guy gives me the Evil Eye.

I will if you�ll go out with me tomorrow.

For some reason my knees start shaking and I get all angry at myself for feeling so nervous.

I guess I�ll just have to ask the other cashier for the keys then.

7-11 Guy sighs and unlocks my precious.

I grab the biggest bottle of wine I can find and rush over to the checkout counter. The other cashier is about to ring me up but 7-11 Guy says to him,

Let me wring her up.

Other cashier shrugs.

My face is turning beet red. 7-11 guy says,

Listen. I think you are really beautiful. Why don�t you wanna go out with me.

I look him in the eye.

Because I don�t fucking want to, OK? I�m sorry.

You would figure this would deter the guy, right? No dice.

You�ll go out with me eventually. I know.

I roll my eyes at him and leave the store.

Fuck. Does this mean I have to find somewhere else to buy cigarettes?

Over the past two days I�ve been thinking a lot about the movie, In The Company of Men. Lines from that movie keep going through my head.

Women. Nice ones, the most frigid of the race, it doesn't matter in the end. Inside they're all the same meat and gristle and hatred just simmering.

I get so used to saying what people want to hear I forget sometimes they might just want the truth.

Let's hurt somebody.

She'll be reaching for the sleeping pills in a week. And no matter what any other woman does, we'll always have this�

My idealism about people has been eroding for some time now. I�ve been feeling more and more lately that I cannot unequivocally love people without reservation. Of course, there�s a grandfather clause to this. People who have my love already aren�t not going to get it, but I don�t see that I will be able to love anyone new again�I don�t even mean romantically. I mean love in any sense. My defenses have gone up to such an extent that even around people I truly care for, the only way I feel comfortable relating closely is with the lubricant of alcohol. It�s like some weird soap opera version of posttraumatic stress syndrome. Sometimes just being around people I want to run into the other room and hide. I know how fucking retarded that sounds. I am so gun shy that I�ve forgotten how to just *be* with another person�be present, be in the same room and occupy the same space. I remember what it was like to accept as a daily reality the idea of close friends and loved ones, but now it�s so much more complicated. I�m always waiting for the ball to drop. And I hate that but I�ve forgotten how to be any other way. It�s not cynicism. It�s something else�something worse�something cowardly and self-protective. I hate it. And I don�t know how to change it.

So what is there left? Ambition I guess. Maybe that�s not such a bad thing. To gain the whole world and lose my soul (to quote a famous novel.) That or become a monk and love humankind as opposed to individual people. People are messy. The concept of humankind is a little easier to stomach.

That would be nice. To sit on top of a mountain in the lotus position., loving everyone without actually having to come into contact with them.

I look like shit right now. I look like complete and total fucking shit. My jaw line is slack and my belly has expanded over the past week of indulgence. Tonight I am going to get drunk alone which is exactly what I feel like doing, and listen to music and feel sorry for myself. And tomorrow I�m going to embark on a ten day fast, probably for all the wrong reasons, which is something I don�t advocate. But I need something to distract myself from the pit of sadness that grows and grows at my core and in which there is no shallow end to wade, only deep places to drown. And I want to feel stronger and leaner. And there�s no quicker way to accomplish the semblance of that than a good ole� fashioned fast. I will fully admit this is the eating disordered part of me taking over and has nothing whatsoever to do with spirituality except in so far as I don�t want to melt into a puddle of despair, and the temporary high and steal beam resolve I get from fasting and the compliments masquerading as real affection�oh hallelujah the quick fix! I want the sense of emptiness in my body. And the vivid dreams. I am so tired of the nightmares of abortions and Victorian England and death that have been waking me in the middle of the night in cold sweats. I want to worry about what size I am. I want to stare at myself and pinch my belly fat and be overjoyed that there�s a little less than there was the day before. I want simple delights such as that. There aren�t any anymore. I am exhausted. And I am disappointed. And I am angry. And there�s no way out of it.

My life is a vast empty space occupied by ghosts. I look over my shoulder and clutch at all the possibilities that slipped through my fingers. I feel like the fourth character in No Exit watching the other people in hell duking it out, mute, on the sidelines. Witness to some absurd existential exercise.

What am I doing here? Haven� I lived out the whole shebang? At the age of 25 I feel like I�ve basically seen it all and there�s not much left to see. I don�t know what to do. I don; know what to do.

Except listen to Robert Pollard. And hope for the best. There�s something left if there�s hope, right?