Call me lame, if you will. And many of you reading this who are my nearest and dearest will be doing so in respond tweets or leaving me comments on Facebook. But I don’t care. I love you anyway.
You’re my book hunting pals to partners in crime. You celebrate the best of days and help me pick up the pieces on the worst. You give me the best advice and you’re the demon on my shoulder. You’re my heroes and my equals. And I’m inspired to be sappy because I’ve had the best couple of days and you’re all to blame. Seriously, what the fuck?
Sunday, Jyg, Esmer, Jerry and I decided to go have us an expensive meal over at Red Lobster. My bank account cried. Afterward, we headed to Target to make my bank account cry even more. I bought this really neat netbook that I didn’t need, but seriously wanted. Later, Esmer and Jyg exiled to Radioshack mostly because the face I made about going to Sally’s. We stayed a short time before heading out to join them, only to be met with a lock door. It was off to Kohls and (later for Jerry and me) Best Buy.
Good times rolled over to today. Monica and I made plans for a book hunt for today. And, excluding Poet’s Corner Bookstore, it was a blast. I spent a little more than I wanted to – which is always the case when book hunting with Monica, but it’s a sure sign of me having a good time – but I was happy with my “booty.”
We hit up the poorly named Poet’s Corner, Books -n- Things, Georgia’s Thrift Store and finally Barnes. Even though we’re lacking two of our former foursome, we get along just fine. Though the echoes of Meester Binx’s peacock sounded loudly in the past.
Here’s to you, my comrads. My brethren. Mis amigos.
I think I’m failing as an adult. Three steps forward and several steps back – or whatever that cliché is. It doesn’t matter, anyway. All I know is that the ground beneath my feet isn’t as steady as it once was.
I spoke to P. – one of my “minions” from work – well, more like he spoke to me. He got a scholarship to Florida. Happy as hell. Later, he broke the news that his girlfriend might be pregnant. I think P. is looking for some sort of guidance. He isn’t coming to the right person. I didn’t know what to tell him other than things happen. Sometimes the things that happen scare the shit out of us. A real adult would add, “It’s the way you handle them that means anything.” I didn’t. Instead, I changed the subject to folding the towels.
Sometimes I wonder if I was born with a part missing. The one that makes of the proverbial heart. The part that produce empathy. It’s getting worse as I’m getting older. I’m becoming more and more detached from the world. It’s hard work to muster up the facade these days. Before faking it would be easy. These days I need to be faking it constantly. I’m worse than the pornographic actress making her orgasmic grunts.
“There is this place inside where all the good things die…”
And it’s not just empathy that’s slipping from my grasp. It’s other things to. Things are just funny anymore. I realize that I’m incapable of telling when someone is joking or being sincere. I smile when I think they’re doing the former and respond with a blank expression when I’m unsure. And all this is building and playing on my insecurities. Times I think it’s best if I just stay home and ignore the world outside.
Last night I had a rather strange dream about a girl I knew, or know, or never met. When I woke up I tried to remember if the person in the dream was April Carpenter or if she was some other white, blonde girl who’s crossed my path. When I awoke, I felt the nausea in my stomach push up. I stayed in bed listening to the rain. I listened to my shallow breaths, sounding like they were coming from another person.
When things become to surreal, or too complicated in my life, I always like to escape. Drown whatever that is eating me away in the gulf. Sometimes I come back feeling better. Sometimes I fuck things up more than they were before.