January 29th, 2145

Eros,

I know. I missed a day. I'm sorry. You know that this doesn't happen very often. I was just far too hung over yesterday to even think of picking up a pen. I can't think to write without a pen on a good sturdy piece of paper. I know, the environment and all that, but screens can never replace this feeling.

Anyway, Eros, I went out Wednesday night and I got very, very intoxicated. I don't even remember how I got home from Manhattan, but I got home somehow. I probably took the stream, but who the fuck put me on? I can't remember a thing. My memories stop when I walked through the bathroom doors at Wave to reapply some lipstick. I vaguely remember that I was making eyes with a short blonde at the hoverbar, and I knew I wanted to dance with her. I must have danced with someone, because I looked in the mirror yesterday morning and that lipstick reapplication was smeared across my cheek. There was a number for Wynona synced to my mobile. I won't call. I hope it was her, though, and not someone I'd regret remembering.

I spent all of yesterday on a blue couch that was not my own. I was too hung over to be alone and so I went over to Talula's house. Its comforting, for me, to have the relationship with Talula that I do. I can pretend to exist within society when I am with her. I can pretend that I am not 139 years old and that she is not 52. She and I sat together, sipping SwissMiss hot chocolate while she talked to me about her family dramarama. Its such a cruel comfort, to me, that SwissMiss still exists. They even have the little marshmellows, you know the ones, that taste like nothing but are integral to the hot chocolate process. She made me some, and I sat there with her and we talked. The thing about talking to Talula is I don't really have anything to say. She can sit with me and talk and talk and talk and I can listen, chiming in here or there with some nugget of 139 year old advice, and she'll happily take it and pretend that it was from another 52 year old woman on equal ground in this 22nd century. And while I listen to her I can sit in introspected silence, remembering to regret myself. So while Talula told me about her mother's sister-in-law (divorce) who'd filed suit against her brother for wrongful repossession of a dog named (how fucking original) Spot, I thought of Liam.

I've known I should stop thinking of Liam. I've tried. You know how hard it is for me. But its like he still exists. And so I catch the eye of short blonde girls at the hoverbar and see an opportunity to break my bonds with a dead man. One I'm in love with still, who I know exists in some plane of time and loves me still, too. I wish I could just reach into that plane and hold his hand, the only hand left in time that is familiar to me anymore, since my two are long gone, replaces by some dead woman's twelve years ago. He should get mad, right? For cheating. Because it's what I am doing. I'm cheating on a dead man. Loving Liam, well, its timeless, but I'm still alive and he is dead. So what am I supposed to do, but have lesbian sex with a short blonde girl from the hoverbar? And hope that just for one night, I forgot to remember him and his hands that I wish would trace the length of my spine and justify the chills that I get when I remember that once, it was true. An x and a y on an axis, but I've left and gone to z. There is no backwards, Eros. Only z.

-Lynn