OK, That's It

OK, That's It

08.25.05 (5:21 pm)   [edit]
Today I was working, thinking about Jenny. And something bad happened. The radio was on "soft-rock" for the day (they change radio stations each day, yesterday was Cracker-Ass Cornbread-Eating Motherfucker Day) and a certain relic from the '80s came on. Something dark and hideous. But before I knew it, I was actually SINGING ALONG.

"I can dream about you, if I can't have you tonight..."

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm over the edge, and I MUST BE STOPPED. Put a bullet in my sugar head, somebody. PLEASE.

Anyway, here's some shit I wrote last night when I got home:
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I've been doing something ever since I left my family in March, and I finally recognized it for what it is tonight.

I keep checking my cell phone. Keep expecting a call.

Right before turning into the library to write my last entry - after a very enjoyable and relaxing evening alone - I checked it again. And it hit me WHY.

I wanted someone to call. I WANTED it.

At first I thought it was some kind of fear trip. That Sheryl would be calling to tell me something was wrong with Katie. Then I thought it would be a call about a teaching job. Or from Jenny. (Yeah, right. The only call I'll ever get from her is the "don't bother coming back to work" call.)

But tonight I realized that all along, what I really wanted was just someone to call.

I usually enjoy being alone, but it's balanced with a need for someone just to be AROUND. Whenever I was home alone and my parents were gone, I enjoyed the weight off my shoulders of not having to be around sociopathic lunatics, but I also kinda wished I could just hear the TV in the other room. On the few nights alone at home while Sheryl and Katie were gone, I'd walk around a lot. Trying to enjoy the solitude, yet wanting to know that they were THERE.

I think it's basically selfish - "stay the fuck out of my way until I NEED you" seems to be the general asshole-spawn idea - and that upsets me about myself. In fact, I despise that in me. I'm also not sure what to do about it, especially since I function better on my own. Well, sometimes. I'm terrible at remembering things that really should be remembered, and last month I bounced two checks in four days simply because I was too wrapped up in bullshit to notice my checkbook was missing a couple receipts. Times like that remind me of how hopeless I am at things most people do in their sleep. I dream in my sleep, and usually when I'm awake, and the dreams don't generally involve sitting down with a calculator.

I was laughing a bit tonight re-reading Hunter Thompson's "author's note" to Fear And Loathing On The Campaign Trail '72 (reprinted in the middle of The Great Shark Hunt) because I saw so much of myself in his inability to meet deadlines, and the adrenaline rush of doing something at the very last minute the same way a jackrabbit waits for the last split second to run out across the road in front of a speeding car. Hunter would be crazed over a two-week deadline while other writers were facing them every DAY. Yeah, that sounds like me. Fucked up over some silly shit everyone else has learned to deal with eons ago. Holed up in the Seal Rock Inn with enough speed to alter the outcome of six Super Bowls. DAMN, I wish I'd written that.

The jackrabbit and I are friends. We've played chicken with Peterbuilts on dark nights down winding roads. Last I saw him, the little hop-happy rat bastard had stolen all my bourbon and was flapjacked on the yellow line, still squirming, still wanting that last little bit of juice to ride the rail again. One more jump across the beams of oncoming traffic before moseying off to Heaven, a place where jackrabbits can knock down their booze without guilt or shame, and tell tales of highway carnage to the other hoppers. Ahh, yes. Paradisio.

It's thoughts like these that remind my why I'm alone tonight out here on the southeast edge of Indianapolis. And why everyone concerned is probably better off.

But there I was. Looking at the cell phone. Realizing I needed someone to talk to, but not knowing anyone who'd want to hear it. I've got good friends, but I try to spare them this shit when I can. I usually fail at that too, and end up wondering why I bother talking to anyone if I'm just going to rave some incoherent babble at their heads. I feel better typing the shit, and I'm often not even sure about that. The amount of things I've left off this blog in the past six months could fill a shrink's library. To hell with those bastards anyway. They make far too much money for the little bit of good they do.

A good friend is better. A good friend who is tuned into your frequency and has the proper bullshit filters in place is invaluable. And they don't come easy.

It almost terrifies me how much I want to be in the company of a woman right now. I'm not convinced it's a good idea for anyone at this point in my Ongoing Spiritual Growth. Especially not some poor frightened thing with her hand in her purse, can of mace poised for action at the first sign of this lunatic's spoken thoughts turning into harsh freakish reality. She's probably half-expecting me to turn into a Gerald Scarfe creation, with her as Bob Geldof trying to escape.

But it's still there, as much as I try to make it melt away with strong Kentucky drink. Drano might work better. Probably doesn't go too well with lime, though.

I'm allowing myself a fantasy. I've tried to rid myself of these things, but it's not so bad when you KNOW it's bullshit. "Yes honey, all that stuff about Jesus taking your sins away is really a load of crap, and your sins never really do go away at all, you just learn to get the paintbrush out and look away, bur wouldn't it be NICE?"

Seeing her smile again today, the powerful pull towards the beautiful woman who gives me my paycheck carries through to this moment, and I see her sitting in front of me. The smile lighting the room. Eventually, we lie down together, feeling each others warmth, and we talk. We. Us. Somehow I overcome my normal selfish need to be 90% of the exchange, and it's about the both of us.

The Look isn't there. The one that says "I don't really believe or even care about anything you are saying, so why are you wasting my time? I've got TV to watch, asshole. Your thoughts are about as important to me as the residue on the toilet brush." I've seen The Look before, and it makes loneliness seem like a pretty damn fine option.

Other things are there instead. Compassion. Understanding. The ability to know the INTENT of the shit I pull out of my head and try to form into complete sentences. No fear. No defensiveness at things not intended to hurt her in the first place. And knowing that while I want all these things from a person, I'm also acutely aware of my own lack of them, and I want to do better.

It's there, and we talk. And listen. And it's good.

Then we make crazed jackrabbit love.

Well, I said it was just a fantasy. Fantasy. Oh shit, now that goddamn Aldo Nova song is in my head. Everything good is destroyed! Nooooooooo!!!!!!!!!


Dougie