Laughing All The Way

Monday, April 17, 2006

I am not an aircraft

You know how when someone confesses a crime, they always claim: “It was an accident.”?

I didn’t mean to sleep with him, it was an accident (like you accidentally fell pussy down on an erect dick?).

I didn’t mean to stab that old lady, it was an accident (like the old bird ran in to the knife you were holding blade out?).

I didn’t mean to snort that line, it was an accident…well it really was. Okay, maybe not an accident, but there was this party…and it was so casual…and I didn’t think it was a big deal. But I didn’t tell Bruce (I tried and I know it’s so fucking passive to do this).

Bruce is away on business. He said good-bye via text message. Right.

I know that he’s a neophyte to this whole grown-up dating thing, but to send a text, knowing that we weren’t going to speak for the better part of a week, it’s just that sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t have to teach certain social queues. After all this time, he still does this shit that makes me kind of wonder. And just to validate that I am not over-reacting, I check in with other people, turns out I am not expecting too much.

I’ve always been told that I expect too much, so I try to temper what I expect with what I say that I expect. I don’t want to be too overwhelming or too demanding. I get that and create a well organized system of checks and balances. I edit my internal monologue and craft my message to read softer than what I hear shouted between my ears.

Now if only I could have this conversation with Bruce without being pissy. Good thing I am being slightly passive aggressive and I know that he will read this and be all Doh!

Passive aggression: a sure way to avoid a fight.

PS. Look at all the categories that this one fits!

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

I go out walking, after midnight

A few years ago I read a book. I know, not all that surprising as I read several dozen books a year, but this one has revisited my memory for a while. There’s something about the deeper meaning that I am appreciating just now, from afar. I suspect that the book is currently residing under a bed somewhere in London, I don’t know that I put enough stock in the book to even keep it in my travels, sometimes a concession is made and books are given away to charity shops or libraries.

I have searched the Internet and Library of Congress and the name in my head appears to be wrong. There are wide expanses of memory, filtering through, touching on the point, but, can I be sure that is the point, I cannot even remember the name of the book - just the cover art.

I suppose that is my lifelong failure. I will always be remembering the elements of some long forgotten text, and I will apply my own impression, my mistaken impression.

And the meaning, so clear now, not really thought about then, am I never going to be the end that works? I always thought that I was the one making it happen and that I was responsible for living an active life, there is nothing worse in life than passivity, but action, for the sake of action, may not be much of an improvement. Maybe, just maybe, all this time, I have been the end that didn’t work.

The Sergeant, the Film Executive, Some (Angry) Boy, maybe all of them were the ends that worked and I was the mis-fitted joint, leaking coolant and threatening the safety of the plant employees.

The point, and yes there is one, the character in the book that let his art work be assumed by another, he was willing to fade into the background, he wanted to be grey and let someone else take the spotlight, in the end the someone in the spotlight burned out and the one who was grey was shown to be of stronger character, solid morals, and deeper talent than anyone suspected.

Just saying, it’s funny, the one that works.

Friday, March 17, 2006

A beautiful wreck

There were words today and tonight. Being the tail end of Drunk Irish Day (DID aka St. Patrick’s Day) I may have lost the words, but the momentum is still here. 

The support of an unexpected source, via an even more unexpected email because seriously she’s better than I in more than a million ways and maybe more if I were even able to enumerate all the ways (how do I love thee, let me count the ways), made me sit back and remember a time when I was bold and brave. A time when I was truer but oh so hard.

Now the hard crunchy shell has suffered a tectonic shift, revealing the soft inner melt in your mouth not in your hand milk chocolate.

As hard as I have found writing something of worth, I NEED to write. The loss of my vomitiginous verbiage has left me bound and gagged. Having waved down an interested party I know that the only way forward is to move forward.

And now, a memory…Brought to you by the letter A

“Hi Some Girl. I was just on my way to [somewhere] and I was thinking of.”

76-Message one has been deleted.

No matter how much this is about to hurt, I have to admit the truth. So I am sorry. My preemptive apology, clammy aloe on a 3rd degree burn, not really all that successful, I know, but every time I hear his voice I think about how much I love him.

Present tense. Because there will never be a time when I don’t love him. Or the him before him. Or the him before him before him. It carries through my days and night like Charles in charge. The lingering presence will never be eviscerated because I am weak and soft.

I wish I were a better person, more able to compartmentalize and segregate. My mental house of cards does not allow for the removal of the warped card. Instead I integrate and further support the weak join (mix some sawdust into some wood glue and the glue becomes a viable support for the unsupportable).

I like to think that all of this makes me healthy and well adjusted. Maybe I am just honest but neither healthy nor well adjusted. Possibly. Whatever the truth, I wonder, am I holding on to a past truth because at least I know it existed for real instead of taking the chance on the future, which may hold nothing but tears and sorrow. I need to know, how do you stop loving the love(s) of your life?

Bruce and I had a mini tangle this morning. I was madish. He was himself. I know that certain behaviors won’t (can’t) change, and so when he behaved as he would I was sad that I was so surprised by him being true to form. I guess there needs to be a two by four shattering my glass house (made of warped cards) for me to see the obvious.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

She’s Going the Distance

I’ve never been the girl to squeeze into a pair of jeans that were too tight (I’m all about comfort). Well, that’s a bit of a lie. When I was in junior high, the jeans had to be so tight that you had to get someone else to zip them while you laid down on the bed. Then you had to roll your beached-whale ass off the bed. But now, I want to be able to breathe (and prevent internal organs from being forever shifted under my lungs).

Maverick: Requesting permission for flyby.
Air Boss Johnson: That’s a negative ghostrider, the pattern is full.

I feel jingle jangle (I got spurs that jingle, jangle, jingle; As I go ridin’ merrily along; And they sing, ‘Away, too glad, you’re single’; And that song ain’t so very far from wrong). There’s been conversation (Bruce) regarding the schism between the writer and the person. I, (the Some Girl I, you understand not the real I, which I recently explained that Some Girl is entirely comprised of me while Some Girl only makes up a little piece of me), am “intimidating” and “don’t suffer fools gladly,” which is certainly ages away from what I thought I was. Having already had this conversation (several times over) I am not really looking for confirmation of what I’ve already heard. But I think I need to be a kinder gentler Some Girl.

Cougar: I’m holding on too tight. I’ve lost the edge. I’m sorry, sir.

Holding the difference between persona and person was easier when I wasn’t so content. I was going to use the word “happy” instead of content, but to be completely accurate, I was neither unhappy nor discontent. Before being what it was, I was happy and content with life, love and the pursuit of happiness. Bruce asked if I would consider myself a happy person in a general sense. I think that in both the general and the issue specific sense I am (was) happy. The sarcastic ready-willing-and-able bitch on wheels really only lives in my head. Publicly I am all smiles and sunshine (until you get me hammered and then I start bashing the poorly dressed).

Maverick: [spots Charlie for the first time] She’s lost that loving feeling.
Goose: She’s lo…
[catches up]
Goose: No she hasn’t.
Maverick: Yes she has.
Goose: [objecting] She’s not lost that lo…
Maverick: Goose, she’s lost it man.
[walks off]
Goose: [to Mav] Come on!
[to himself]
Goose: Aw sh… I hate it when she does that.

Unfortunately this is where I tell you that the sunshine and happiness has become Kudzu that crept through the crevices between she and I. I am having considerable angst at the idea of continuing on as Some Girl but without the therapeutic release allowed here I worry that I will be hemmed in. Without the edge though (see above), I have a hard time writing anything worth writing (I refuse to be a crappy blogger writing about what I ate for dinner).

(No trophy, no flowers, no flash bulbs, no wine.; He’s haunted by something he cannot define.; Bowel shaking earthquakes of doubt and remorse,; Assail him, impale him with monster truck force.; In his mind he’s still driving, still making the grade.; She’s hoping time that her memories will fade,; Cause he’s racing and pacing and plotting the course,; He’s fighting and biting and riding on his horse.)

I guess this was a long-winded way of saying I have a touch of writer’s block and I am blaming it all on Bruce.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

The Naked Truth

I picked up the new Augusten Burroughs book, Dry. I started reading it while drinking a martini (Grey Goose Dirty Straight Up) as big as my head. As I giggle over his witty recollection of entering rehab, I get tipsy. I’ve left half my meal on the plate knowing that I have limited space in my stomach and I much rather fill that space with vodka.

What is wrong with me?

Flying into Denver yesterday evening, I worked through most of it, about 50 pages left, and there were moments that rang a little too true. Am I an alcoholic, probably not, do I abuse alcohol…um, yeah.

The depth of reasons are nowhere near Burroughs; and he had so many good reasons to drink as well as lots of bad ones. Me, I drink because it’s what I do. It’s what everyone does. It’s how time is passed and how time passes.

There is a point, and if you intend on reading this book stop now, that broke me. I had to put it down. His best friend is dying from AIDS and Burroughs steps up for the first time in his life. He becomes the responsible adult that he has avoided being for the last decade of his life. As the imminent death of his friend become far more imminent Burroughs starts drinking again. After nine months of sobriety he walks into a liquor store and buys a bottle.

It was so much more than the maudlin pieces of “poor drunk gets drunk again” it was the description of him doing a line of coke at the hospital before he goes into see his friend for the last time.

It just didn’t seem so wrong to me. I understood every word of that exchange. I got it. And that scared me.

Now I know that the smart person would take stock of life and why all of the above bladi blah. Tonight, I am going to drink my weight in vodka. And then tomorrow, I will sit by the fire, drinking. And then go to the wedding with the open bar and make use of the open barrage. And while the party continues I will continue to join the party. Having read the memoirs of a man who was smoking crack and living in squalor did nothing to deter me. Because, I have rationalized, I am not that bad. I’ve never blacked out. I’ve never gone to work still drunk. I’ve never drank a bottle of scotch in one night by myself.

And with all the truths that are pouring from my fingers at this very moment, with all the light that should be blinding to me at this very moment, with all of the higher understanding and knowledge that I have at this very moment, all I want is another drink.

Friday, July 29, 2005

I’m drunk, not stupid

So I went out tonight with the same crowd from last night. I have several points to make…

First of all, I made a rookie mistake. I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t drunk, so I keept drinking. I got in the cab and there was my drunkenness. Oh, god, if I lay down there will be vomit throughout the land. Or all over the bathroom, wahatever.

Second of all, I am totally falling for a guy who is otherwise engaged with anoher girl. Seriously, the effort to not cll him these past tow noights is rediculous, but I don’t want to mess up his good thing.

Oky I know this is bad. Real bad. Indescribably bad. I know. I am working on it. By working on it I mean: I am not drunk dialing but totally liking him more every day.

Don’t judge me, he likes me back. But he’s otherwise occupado.

So right now there are a buncj of drunk people ordering late night chienese food. And calling eachother bitch.

I totallyh got left at the club. I waited and waited for my sister and her shusnabd but I suddenly realized that they took the fuck off. So I wandered into the street and found me a cab. I directed him to where I wanted to fgo and then he went the wrong way. I didn’t say anything at first and finally I perked up and said where the hell are we. Of course I was alone and the cab driver was all shady. So he kind of laughs sat me and I say: “I’m drunk, not stupid.”

And people that is the way it’s going to be drunk, not stupid.

So I am going to bed alone tonoight, but thinking of nort going to bed alone.