Monday, January 30, 2006

too much left to taste that's bitter 

Oh my goodness oh my goodness! (Waited years, simply eons, to use that line. Never could get the inflection right in person. Which is okay, in retrospect. Might be an unsettling allusion from a grown, (ahem)27-year old woman.)

So, we'll start...hmmmm...with S. Over the last however-long-it's-been, he and I haven't spoken much. We hung out once or twice and mostly fought, we saw each other a few times at the bar, and he never even said hello (plus one v. v. late-night call on a borrowed phone). And there are a couple reasons (mostly even semi-justifiable) why he might not, but the way I figure it, he should have said hello anyway, just out of respect, and he knew it. And his cellphone died, so I couldn't call him up and yell at him about it (hence the borrowed phone--bonus points.) And I just got madder and madder, I mean, there was steam rising from my ears. And my backbone stiffened a little and I decided, pardon my french, but, well, fuck him. He was a coward and a child, I decided.

But I never could leave well enough alone, you know that. So I did drop by his house very late one night and told him very clearly that I did not like that he did not acknowledge me, that he hurt my feelings, that I hated it, in fact. As an afterthought I played him a couple of choice cellphone messages he'd left me in the past. And that was fucking bananas. You should have seen the steam rising from his ears. It was priceless. Did you ever have a moment where you wished, for a half-second, that you had your own camera crew? Yeah. Totally.

In this I felt completely justified. After all, it's not like I could have called ahead.

This was maybe two weeks ago. I haven't seen him around, I've been pretty busy. I've been surprisingly okay about it, though. I was supposed to meet some people from work at some bar last night, but I left my ID in my other pants (yes, really) and couldn't get in. So, I decided to go hang out at my bar on Industry Night and, you know, kick it with my peeps. And I was conversing gaily with aforementioned peeps, and I see you-know-who at the other end of the bar--didn't even see him walk in. The look he gave me--well, I had to go say hello and see how was the weather with him. When I said hello, he smiled so brightly and looked at me so warmly that it was like he just lit up my whole day, literally. It was like the fucking sun to me. We chatted, caught up a little, he asked how I was, I asked how he was, and he responded "I feel like dancing with you right this second." So of course I was completely knocked out by this--I'm only human. I was seeing sunspots, I tell you. I couldn't even dance. (Me!?) I could only shuffle spasmically and gaze at him like a golden retriever at a bacon cheeseburger. (Brea will be able to reference that look.) He wouldn't let go of me, and then abruptly told me he had to leave. And I was all, "What? Just when we were having so much fun? My songs aren't even done!"

And Your Correspondant was not a happy camper.

To say the least.

So I'm blubbering all over the bar, like an idiot, but let's just assume the bartenders are used to it, shall we? Complete strangers bought me those (stupid, I hate them, I really hate the way they pressure you to buy them)roses people sell late at night at bars because they felt sorry for me. Eeeew.

I go over there anyway. I mean, what the hell was that? As often happens, I arrive there just before he does. We fight, we make up, I verbally bitch-slap him around a little to make sure he knows I may be an idiot, but an idiot with some, albeit remote, boundaries. We talk and we talk and we talk and we taaaaalk, and it should have been an endless night but I haven't been keeping up with the sacrifices to Penelope. And it felt so good, I just can't fathom how he doesn't feel the same contrast between light and dark when we're together, and if he doesn't feel it, then what exactly in holy hell is he doing here anyway? (Four months, people. Four months.) And it's painfully clear and true that he is simply the only person who makes me feel good. (Sorry, B. You do, too, but he's here and it's love and it's just so much more encompassing than eternal friendship, even.) All day I deal with assholes and needs and people who make me feel anxious and unsure of myself, but maybe that's because my confidence is shaken to the core by this romance, because if he can see into me sososo deeply and still just wants to get away from me, well, there's not much hope after that, is there? That's just damning. The prospect of not having him in my life is bleak. Grim. Despairing. Being with him is just so easy, at a time in my personal development when making small-talk with coworkers is challenging and the act of waitressing requires actual physical effort to engage customers. We can fight bitterly, viciously, and turn around and be discussing something completely else, a movie or a piece of news, something totally benign, in a matter of moments. Listen, I know he's completely fucked up, but honestly it's one of the things I love about him because so am I. We are both in these dark places that no one seems to be able to comprehend but the other. He drinks too much and he's broke and he works too much and he's crabby and he hates his mom, but I like him that way and I wouldn't change a hair on his head.

In fact, the only thing about him I would change is his mind.

He brings out the best in me. Sometimes the crazy, but mostly the best. He certainly works hard at making me crazy. We have this odd, isolated relationship. I know his favorite colors and how many brothers he has and the circumstances of his birth and that he hates raw tomatoes and the music he listened to in high school, but not who his best friend is or preferred time of day or favorite cuisine. Does he dream in color or black and white? I don't know.

We stay up until sunrise, and he begs me to stay until he has to work at 10. And I want to stay. So bad. I would give this man a kidney, at this point, and if it came right down to it, which it probably would, even a baby. But this I cannot do. And I can tell by what he doesn't say that this another time where we break up. He calls me a cab, and to my complete astonishment and utter surprise (not to mention awwwww) he has my phone number memorized, effortlessly. (I don't have his memorized, and I think we all know how I feel about him!)But he says we'll see each other again someday, and I tell him I'd prefer not to. It's too, too hard. It kills me. Better to just go back to learning to live without him. (Not to mention, one of the reasons we never go anywhere is that we can barely keep dressed in each other's company. What can I say? You would too.) And I tell him I love him, which I know he won't believe, and he starts to cry. And many other tender, regretful things that parting lovers say.

Walking out of there breaks my heart. It'll be weeks again before I stop seeing him in my dreams.


So, in other news, I started school two weeks ago, and I lovelovelove it, although I missed class last week because I wrecked my (the!) car on my way to school when I tried to jump into the turn lane early and ended up jumping the divider between the universal turn lane and the presumeably "special" turn lane. The frame is most likely twisted, not to mention all the scary shit dangling from the car, so it will probably be totaled. Which is okay, I guess, though I'm powerful sad about it. I was wearing my seatbelt, so I just have a little scratch across my collarbone instead of a ride on the ambulance when I was supposed to be in EMT school. The irony might have given me a head injury, anyway. I hit that sucker pretty hard, 30, maybe 35 mph. (I was a ways back from the light--I promise it's actually more reasonable than it sounds.) It was still kind of dumb, but hey, now I don't have to worry about replacing that burnt-out headlight I got pulled over for last week.

Always look on the bright side of life, is what I always say, except for when I can't see it, and then I say, sometimes you just have to choke a bitch.

(This last is actually really funny and not as mean as it sounds. Pman's friend Andrew says it, and he's this little skinny kinda-geeky-but-totally-rockin' guy who makes thousands drawing dragons for a living, couldn't be nicer or more kind. He doesn't really refer to actual women, more like the act of taking hold of a problem. He who split the Gordian Knot could have said that while slicing, for instance. I however, use it to refer to actual women. Sometimes. A for instance:

Friday night some pregnobot yuppie came in with her attitudinal friends and proceeded to piss me off royally. Apparently I missed the part where I was supposed to give two shits about the unborn heir to the throne and the Dowager Empress. I mean, honey, I've done it three times and moved furniture doing it. That miracle-of-life shit better be pretty damn miraculous to impress me. (How do I know it was her first? Easy. A, she was out to dinner with her spouse, and B, bitch was acting like she invented the concept.)She had me running all over the restaurant to find out if the cheese in the cheese fondue was pasteurized. The cheese in the fondue.

Okay. I'm no rocket scientist, nor do I know the Pasteur Method in all its tedious glory, but I'm pretty sure if it comes out of the oven, molten, in a metal pot, not quite molten but still very very hot (2nd degree burns, I'd say) then you're probably fine. Second, this is America. You're lucky you're not getting cheese food product. Where the fuck are we, France? No, DENVER. Third, if you're really that concerned about the baby, you might want to take your knocked-up ass on out of the smoking bar. The ashtrays aren't for your gum, slacktard.)

I'd better quit while I'm ahead. Seacrest out.